Rival: A Dragon Age II Story
by game-on-panda
Summary: The events of one man's life are revealed against the extremes a rival will go to in order to achieve his ends. Rated M for violence, sexual content / themes, psychological / emotional manipulation, and strong language.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All character names, locations and plot elements are the property of Bioware and Electronic Arts (EA) Games. 'Dragon Age 2' and all related characters are the sole property of these entities. This is a fan-written fiction.

This story takes place during Acts 2 and 3 of 'Dragon Age 2', with some speculation as to events following the story.

Warning: this story contains sexual content and themes, psychological and emotional manipulation, violence, some brief strong language, and adults discussing philosophical things.

* * *

_So run with the eyes of a devil_

_And keep him in your dreams_

_If you succumb to the lies of the rebel_

_You'll cleanse yourself of me_

- Seether

* * *

A fist beat rapidly at the front door of the Hawke estate.

On the second floor, a bleary-eyed pirate sat up on her side of the bed, squinted into the darkness, and then walked naked across the floor. She exited the room, leaned on the top railing of the staircase, listened for a moment to a muffled voice on the other side of the door, and then wandered back into the bedroom. "It's for you," she said, poking the man in the bed.

"Of course it's for me," the man muttered, his face in the pillow. "It's always for me. I'm a right popular person. If it wasn't for me, then this wouldn't be a normal night."

"It's your crazy friend."

"Which one? Last count all my friends were crazy."

"You're talking into the pillow again, sweet thing."

Marekh Hawke lifted his head, raking his black hair back from his forehead. "If that damned mage is out there again..."

"That would be a 'yes'."

"Bloody hell," Hawke grunted. He reached out for the nightstand table, groping for his robe. "All right, Isabela," he said, "where'd you hide it?"

The pirate grinned. "You tell me where my clothes are first."

"… Library?"

"Oh you naughty thing," Isabela said, tossing his robe at him. She sauntered out of the room, offering her lover a show.

Hawke rubbed his forehead. "Maker's breath, woman," he muttered, before he wrapped his robe around his upper body, gathered a pair of trousers from the floor, and padded barefoot down the steps. He opened the massive front door to confront a chilly rainstorm, and a soaking wet blonde mage, leaning on his staff.

"Oh," the mage said, "you are here. I was… worried you might not be."

Hawke arched an eyebrow. "The witching hour, as it were," he said dryly, "and you show up because you were 'worried'?"

"I needed to speak with you."

"By all means, let's have it out, right here. Why, pray tell, did you wake me up at this Maker-forsaken hour?"

The mage rubbed his wet hair. "Could I come in? It's wet out here."

"Indeed it is wet. It is also late. I was asleep."

"Yes, yes, I'm well aware how much I interfere with your needs," the mage snapped.

Hawke grinned, but he bared his teeth as he did so. It was not a friendly smile. "Let me guess: oppression this, templars that, and all that your little mad brain can imagine. Again, at this hour of the night. You couldn't have gone to the brothel and paid some little slip of a girl to listen to you talk?"

The mage glared. "Don't joke about this."

"It's all a joke, Anders. If it wasn't a joke, I wouldn't be laughing at it."

"You laugh at everything!"

"I do. Wonder of wonders, and laughter has not drawn me into blood magic, slavery, or any other unsavory mage activities." Hawke folded his arms, still grinning. "So tell me what in the Void you want, or I'll sic the damn dog on you."

Anders paled. "I hate that dog."

"I'm well aware. So is he."

"Oh, Marrrrrrekh…" Isabela called from within the library. "I'm fully naked on the floor in front of the fire, and I await your attentions!"

Hawke grinned at Anders. "And duty calls, my friend," he said.

"You two are so caught up in your petty pleasures that you can't even see what's going on around you," Anders said, shoving his way past Hawke, his wet footprints soaking into the carpet.

"Lovely," Hawke remarked as he closed the door. "Sandal will have a field day cleaning that up."

"You need to start taking this seriously."

"Anders, have you _ever_ known me to not take you seriously?"

"You have _never_ taken me seriously. You don't even listen to me. I tell you a hundred times what they are capable of, and you never listen."

Hawke nodded. "Yes, Anders, because you talk and you talk, but you don't say anything. You tell me what my father spent his entire life telling me, and it was no more enlightening when he talked about the Circle."

"So your father understood."

"No, my father accepted that there was a purpose for all people. Did you know a templar helped him escape? Pretty good man for a templar, I suppose. Gave my brother a good name in the end." Hawke's eyes grew hard. "Then again, I'm sure you'd find a way to blame the templars for Carver's death as well."

Anders held up an accusing finger. "Your brother hated mages."

"My brother hated you," Hawke corrected.

"Your brother despised you," Anders growled.

Hawke's pale gray eyes narrowed. "I killed my brother, Anders. I put that blade in his heart myself. I remember every moment of it. Don't act as though you understood anything about my brother, or me, because you were not there."

"I've been in the Deep Roads," the mage protested.

"I'm sure you have," Hawke said. "I'm sure there are a hundred things you've done that I would envy you for. At this time, however, I hate no patience for you, your paranoia, or your little games. Go away." He opened the door, and gestured into the rainstorm. "Before you do something completely stupid, Anders. Go home."

"What? Something more idiotic than you sleeping with that filth-ridden pirate bitch?" Anders snapped.

"Marekh?"

Hawke turned at a much older woman's voice from the entry room. Leandra Hawke stood in the doorway, the mabari hound, Puck, beside her, his ears pricked up. Leandra rested a hand on the dog's head, but kept a close eye on her son and the other mage. "Marekh, is something wrong? I heard raised voices."

"Go back to sleep, Mother," Hawke said. "Anders was on his way out."

"Into the rain?"

"For his own good, Mother," Hawke said, glaring at Anders.

"One of these days," Anders said quietly, "you will listen to me. I'm not sure what it will take, but you _will_ hear every word I have to say."

Hawke's lips curled into a menacing smile. "When two grown men can throw fireballs at one another, threats mean very little, wouldn't you say?"

Anders scowled at the other man and stalked out the door.

Hawke closed the door behind him.

"I apologize for waking you, Mother."

"It's… I wasn't really sleeping, dear. The dog and I were reading. I… heard voices." She smiled sadly. "I thought your brother was back."

Hawke pursed his lips, not wanting to discuss the past any longer. Carver was a painful memory that he held close to his heart, and one that he did not discuss with his mother. Leandra had never truly recovered from Bethany's death before her eyes, and Carver's abandonment in the Deep Roads, for that was what it had been, that had broken her heart well beyond repair. Hawke did not think that anything would ever be the same for her again, but he kept his own counsel on the matter.

"I think we'll be up awhile, Mother," he said. "Go to sleep. If the rain's let up tomorrow, we should go talk with that Orlesian dressmaker in the market. I'm sure we can find something you like."

Leandra smiled sadly. "That would be lovely, dear." She patted the dog's head. "Come along, Puck," she said. The mabari followed her back to her room.

Sighing, Hawke leaned against the door, and slowly banged the back of his head into it.

Isabela appeared in the doorway, dressed, but missing her boots. She looked at him, her lips twisted into a frown. "Don't tell me he was asking for money."

"Would that he were."

"Oh, did the big nasty templars hurt his little feelings, again?"

"I'm sure they must have done."

"Poor little thing," Isabela said. She walked forward and tugged on Hawke's hand. "I hate it when you get serious."

"Oh, darling, you know me, I'm never serious." He grinned and lifted her up, her legs wrapped around his waist. She rested her arms on his shoulders.

"Only serious when the right occasion presents itself," she teased.

"That, dear lady, is the only proper occasion when one _should_ be serious."

"Mm!" she said, licking her lips. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"What? Not my cutting wit or my dashing good looks?"

"Well," Isabela said, gesturing with her head for him to carry her into another room, "between you, Varric, and Fenris, I am certainly not lacking for good scenery."

"What horrors your mind conjures I will never know."

"Not unless you start using that pesky blood magic," she teased.

"Red really isn't my color," he said. "It clashes with my skin."

"You are as dark as I am, sweet thing," she said.

"Yes, well, it goes without saying that one doesn't ruin perfection. Or is that an Orlesian saying? I can never remember."

"Ooh, Orlais. We should make a trip. I could wear something special for the occasion."

"Would it be a serious occasion?" Hawke inquired.

"Only the most proper serious occasion," Isabela told him. "Now take me into the library, lock the door, and make this a stormy evening to remember."

"I suppose I should just give up on sleep at this rate," he muttered, carrying her into the library.

"Sleep is for the weak, Hawke. Now take that robe off and show me how serious you can be."

* * *

"You're doing it again," Varric Tethras said the following evening at the Hanged Man.

"Doing what now?" Marekh Hawke replied innocently.

"Varric's right," Fenris said, his hand casually gripping a glass of whiskey. "You are doing it again."

"What? Am I going gray? What?"

"He's smirking," Varric said to Fenris.

"As if he were trying to hide something," Fenris added.

"Suspicious."

"Absolutely."

"Wanna bet how long it lasts?" Varric offered.

"Is your purse that big, Varric?" Fenris countered.

"Ooh! Ooh! Are we betting?" Isabela asked, sitting down at the table. "I love a good gamble. What are we betting on? Who buys the first round if they lose? And who wants to help me pay for a night at the brothel for that mage?"

Fenris arched an eyebrow at Hawke.

Isabela smiled, and lazily draped her arm over Hawke's shoulder. "Oh, no, no, I'm not sharing him with the girls at the brothel, certainly not one-on-many. They'd wear him out too quickly. He needs a woman's touch."

Varric snorted into his beer.

"You, on the other hand, Varric, you might survive the onslaught."

The dwarf raised his hands in surrender. "Isabela, I adore you, but I don't want any part of your schemes."

Isabela leaned forward in her casual yet flaunting fashion, showing off what she considered among her better assets. "Oh, Varric," she cooed, "I've already got Hawke wrapped around my finger, as it were—" Fenris choked on his drink "—and I'm not willing to share yet, that's all."

"And here I thought she cared," Hawke shrugged.

"I was talking about our blue friend when I mentioned a mage, anyway," Isabela said.

Varric looked at Fenris. "Taking bets on how long it takes for him to lecture the girls into celibacy?"

"I would rather he go take a flying leap, but that is my opinion," the elf responded.

"Could we go one night without discussing that idiot and his suicidal tendencies?" Hawke rolled his eyes. "Anyway, you two were going to explain something before our pirate queen showed up. What was it?"

"We were wondering how long this little tango's going to last, that's all," Varric said.

Hawke smirked.

Isabela yawned.

Varric looked at Fenris. He frowned, and then fished in his pocket, before tossing a few coins at Fenris. "Fine. You win."

"Many thanks."

"What? You were betting against me already?" Hawke sighed. "Varric, I'm wounded."

"The elf said you were attached at the hip. I said she was a womanizer."

"You whore," Hawke said good-naturedly.

"You bastard," Isabela responded, a wide grin on her face. She stood up, leaning her elbows on Hawke's shoulders. He leaned his head back a bit against her chest, and her smile shifted into a decidedly cheeky one. "You were saying?" she said to Varric.

"Womanizer," Varric said. "But… maybe 'equal opportunist' is the better phrase." He looked at Fenris. "I'll raise the bet," he said.

"Not a chance," Fenris said, grinning. "This is far too enjoyable."

"It is a good night when we're not chasing after slips, rogues, and mageling idiots," Hawke said.

"Chosen a side yet, then?" Fenris wanted to know.

"I'm on my own side," Hawke said, and picked up his drink. "So long as you lot keep my back, I figure I'll have it made easy."

"He's too pretty to lock in the Gallows anyway," Isabela said.

"And she'd break me out the moment she got in the mood," Hawke added.

Varric handed Fenris three more coins.

"Andraste's ass," Isabela remarked, "I'd think they had doubts about us, Hawke."

"I think Varric has doubts; Fenris has enough to cover two months' worth of expenses."

The elf raised his glass to Varric in a mock toast. The dwarf made an obscene gesture.

"With friends like you lot," Hawke said, raising his own glass, "may we earn the enemies we make."

"Oh I have no doubt of us doing that," Varric said.

"You do make interesting enemies," Fenris tossed in.

"Where's my damn drink?" Isabela demanded. "You can't bloody toast without a drink." Seconds later, a whiskey was in her hand, and she added hers to the toast. "To worthy adventures, delicious evenings, and all the coin we can spend," she said.

"I'll drink to that one," Varric said.

"Give me a warm fire, good friends, and a happy tomorrow," Hawke toasted.

They all stared at him.

"Had you," Hawke said, grinning. "Let's drink tonight, see tomorrow, and screw the lot of them if they can't handle it."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Varric said, reflecting the human mage's wild grin.

They toasted, and spent the remainder of the evening laughing, gambling, drinking, and reveling in the company of good people in a good place. It was, Hawke though, one of the finest moments in the five years he'd spent in Kirkwall. To enjoy a good evening in the company of good people, it was all he could have asked for.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later, he sat in the library of the mansion. It was eerily silent. The dog was curled up at his feet, whimpering softly every few moments. Hawke stared into the flames, reaching his hand out, feeling the gentle pulse of fire at his finger tips, and twisted his fingers this way and that, making the fiery tongues dance. It did not cheer him up.

"Where is she? Did you find her?"

He lifted his head at Gamlen's voice. His uncle sounded cranky, angry, and also oddly prepared for some kind of news. "Well?" the old man demanded.

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Hawke said quietly, the laughter absent from his voice, the constant smirk gone fro his face. He felt hollow, as if he were no longer there in his own body. He felt like he was living someone else's life. "She's gone," he added, restraining the crackling edge from the syllables.

Gamlen was silent for a moment, and then he demanded: "What? What do you mean 'gone'? Where is she? What happened?"

_A mage murdered her. Chopped her body into pieces, sewed her head onto the neck of another woman, reanimated the body, made her walk, like a puppet on string. I killed the bastard, but I couldn't save her. All the power at my fingertips, and she died in my arms._

For the first time in many years, Marekh Hawke felt like a child, afraid of the world. He closed his eyes, bit his lower lip until he tasted blood, and then said, his voice devoid of cocky assurance, "She's gone, Uncle. Leave it at that."

"Who did this? What happened?"

"She's _gone_," Hawke repeated. "Will knowing why make it better? She's gone. I couldn't save her. That's all it is."

"So it's your fault?" Gamlen exploded. "You weren't fast enough? Not strong enough? She's gone and it's because of _you_?" He choked. "Why her? Why Leandra? What did your mother ever do to deserve this?"

_She had three children and she loved us too much._

"She's gone," Hawke said a final time. "I'll ask Aveline to retrieve the body. It's only right."

"Yes," Gamlen agreed, his voice strained, but he was regaining his composure. "Yes, yes you're right. That young lady will solve everything." He sighed heavily. "I… will leave you to your thoughts. Ah, should you need anything…" His voice trailed off.

Hawke resumed staring at the flames. He barely moved when Gamlen's large hand settled on his shoulder. "Take care of yourself, nephew," Gamlen said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I have no desire to bury another member of this family."

Had he the strength of will, he might have at least shaken his uncle's hand. Instead, he offered a small nod of his head, and then flashed his uncle the most charming smile he could muster. "You know me, Uncle," he said. "I always save the day."

Gamlen looked as though he did not believe Hawke's statement, but gave his shoulder a squeeze. His departing footsteps led the dog to look up at Hawke and whine softly. Hawke petted the mabari between the ears, but didn't speak. The dog seemed to appreciate the silence.

* * *

An hour or so later, he heard a knock at the front door, and reluctantly got up from his chair. When he saw his visitor, he considered his words, and then said, "I suppose I'd be lying if I said it was good to see you. What do you want?"

Anders offered a sad, sympathetic smile. "I heard what happened. Varric told me. I… I wanted to see you, to make sure you were all right. Maker, Hawke, it's… I can't believe that another mage would do such a thing. Your poor mother…"

Hawke shrugged, not wishing to discuss the situation. Anders reached into the pack on his shoulder and held out a bottle of wine. "I… it isn't much, I don't know what to offer, really, but…"

"I thought Justice didn't let you get drunk," Hawke said, a light touch of humor in his voice.

"He doesn't," Anders admitted. "However, I hear it's a good wine, and it would be a pity if it went to waste."

"I didn't know you knew a thing about wine," Hawke said, taking the bottle.

"I don't. I just heard it was." He smiled faintly. "I… I know it's a terrible time, and I can't imagine what you're going through… I had a friend once, a lot like you, she used to tell me about a man, an old friend of hers. She watched him die."

"I'm not sure how that's supposed to make me feel better," Hawke said. "You might as well come in. I'm not sleeping at this rate." He took the bottle from Anders. "Come on into the library. Tell me about this friend of yours. Lovely girl, was she?"

"She was another mage," Anders said. "She was… a hero, a good woman. She led that final charge against the Archdemon in Denerim. She was a Grey Warden, like I was."

Hawke uncorked the bottle. "Wait. The Hero of Ferelden?"

"The same."

"Human girl, about my height, darkish skin, oddly red hair?"

"That's the one." Anders smiled faintly. "Don't tell me you knew her."

"No, I didn't. She was an Amell, though. Distant cousin of my mother's… so I suppose a cousin of mine, too. She'd be a few years younger than me, I think." Hawke chuckled softly. "I never met her. I think my father met her once when he was near the Tower, but he never talked much about her. Who was this man she talked about?" he asked as he poured the wine, and handed Anders a glass.

The mage fidgeted with his glass. He watched while Hawke drank. "He was a templar," Anders said. "All she'd tell me was what happened on top of Fort Drakon. The Archdemon landed, they beat the thing to the ground, and she picked a sword, didn't have the first clue what she was going to do with it, but she picked it up. He knocked her to the ground with his shield, wouldn't let her do it. Took her sword and charged at the thing. She watched him die."

Hawke slowly lowered his glass. He had an odd look on his face.

Anders continued to speak, slowly: "She used to have nightmares. She'd dream about him, about all she'd done wrong, how she hadn't stopped him. We used to talk, late into the night, when we were in Amaranthine. I was… happier then, I suppose. We were friends, despite everything."

"Despite everything?" Hawke looked at his glass. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Anders…"

"She listened to me," Anders said. "Despite everything we were facing, in spite of her own grief, she would at least listen when I warned her about the templars, about what they were capable of. Of course, she'd lived it; she'd been in the Tower her entire life. Did you know she knew Cullen? I guess he wasn't always the prig he is now, but she knew him, knew him for who he was, what he was. She always told me, not all the templars are bad, not all of them hate us, and not all of them will turn on us. I told her otherwise, I told her what was coming. I told her, and I told her. Justice was not part of me, then, but I knew."

Hawke stumbled, and gripped the library staircase railing. "Anders…" he said again, but his voice choked.

"No," Anders said, shaking his head, putting his glass on the table. "No, you're going to listen. This event, your mother's death, a mage did this, but he was not like us. We can change things, we can fight against the tyranny, the oppression, we can battle against them, we can take the fight to them, if you would only listen to me. I am telling you what storm is coming, and you are not listening. Now, I don't take any pleasure in this, Hawke, but you are going to listen."

The other man's fingers let go of the railing, and he hurled his glass in Anders' direction. The mage moved, and the glass landed on the carpet, cracking, the remnants of the wine spilling out. Hawke collapsed to his knees, his fingers raking at the carpet. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. He looked up at Anders, his gray eyes furious, unforgiving.

Anders did not break eye contact. He knelt in front of Hawke. "We will talk, where no one can interrupt, where we will not be toyed with, where there will be no room for others to interfere. You will understand what I am telling you, you will see the truth that I am throwing in your face. You will learn that I am not going to stay away, that I cannot be got rid of, and that I am here to push you to the path you will choose. We met for a reason, Marekh. You cannot fight me on this."

Hawke had enough strength to spit in Anders' face.

The other mage's eyes erupted into blue fire. The possessing spirit lashed out, hurling Hawke against the stairs, knocking his head back. Stars burst in front of his eyes, and he was dimly aware of another glass in front of his face. A hand gripped his jaw, and he tried to call fire to his hands, to burn the other man, to curse him, to do anything, but Anders forced more wine into his mouth.

The unnaturally sweet aftertaste hit his throat, and he fell forward, the room spinning, fading around him. He heard Anders' voice, and it was not his own, not truly, but it grew dim as Hawke slid into unconsciousness.

"_**Sleep until we are understood, mage. There is no compromise in this."**_

Hawke struggled against the darkness, thought he heard his mother's voice, perhaps even Carver's voice, shouting at him, but then he was gone, drifting. The last thing he knew was a pair of hands gripping his shoulders, and there was only shadow.

* * *

Isabela lingered in the doorway of the bedroom. Hawke was sprawled on the bed, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. He wore a loose-fitting pair of trousers and nothing else, the blankets kicked off the end of the bed. The mabari slept fitfully on a padded cushion near dimly lit fireplace.

The pirate shifted on her feet. She wanted to say something, to try to offer some kind of comfort, an affectionate embrace, anything, but, try as she might, she could only see flashes of the horrors they had encountered beneath the city. Upon their return to Lowtown, Hawke had been silent, his dark skin pale, his eyes empty, as if the very soul had been torn out of him. His silent, awkward shuffle into the night had left Isabela with Varric and Fenris at the Hanged Man.

Merrill was waiting for them, and the look on her face told Isabela that the elven mage sensed that something terrible had transpired. "What's happened? Where's Hawke going? Shouldn't you go after him?" Merrill wanted to know.

Isabela departed, but only after two drinks, and watching Merrill hide from Fenris' drunken ravings about damned mages. The Dalish elf hid behind Varric, who tried his best to calm Fenris, but the warrior had finally stormed out of the bar, intoxicated with rage and alcohol. Isabela knew that Leandra Hawke had always been kind to him, if a bit wary. Seeing her ultimate fate had knocked the elf's warming attitude toward mages back to zero.

Now, she stood in the Hawke mansion, watching her lover sleep, and wished she knew what to say. She realized that there were no words, nothing that could possibly ease this pain. She did not know what it felt like to lose someone so close, so dear…

_And yet,_ she thought glumly, as she slowly removed her boots and silently walked across the floor to sit on the bed at his side, _I fear that I lost a part of you down in that sewer._

She curled one leg beneath her body, and sat, watching him sleep. She reached out a hand and brushed hair from his face. He did not move, but she felt the warmth of his breath against her hand. She sat silently, and finally shifted her position, watching the doorway.

_None will come for you,_ she promised silently. _Whatever hell I bring to your doorstep, it will not touch you. I will not step aside for any tidal waves, not if they might strike you. So sleep, you sweet, foolish man. Tomorrow's another day, and even if I can't bring you peace, I'll bring you what joy I can._

She swiped a hand across her face, knocking the tears from her eyes.

_And, damn you, but I'm afraid of what you've already brought into my life._

* * *

She woke in the bed, her arms folded around him. Hawke was still sound asleep. She kissed his cheek softly, but he made no sound, did not move. She gently let him go, retrieved her boots, and departed the house. She roamed the streets of Hightown for some time, examining the stalls, listening to the guards, but no one spoke about a murder in the sewers, there was no mention of a missing highborn lady, nor the results of a dead man's experiments. She wanted to wipe the images from her mind, but there was no escaping what she had seen.

She lingered at an Orlesian fabric seller's stall. The woman ignored her. Isabela gently reached out her and stroked a long bolt of silk, recalling the teasing conversation she'd overheard between Hawke and his mother the day after Anders' little tantrum in the front hall.

_Hawke snorted as Leandra examined a bolt of silvery gray silk. "Oh, come now, Mother, gray is out. Choose something lively, like blue. Red, even, if you must. No black, no gray, and, Maker forbid, no white. Choose something stunning."_

"_Gray is perfectly acceptable, and your father always liked it when I wore white."_

_Hawke waved his hands. "Bethany loved blue, Mother. She adored blue. Blue was everywhere. Why not blue?"_

_Leandra arched an eyebrow. "What are you on about?"_

"_Father also liked blue. Maybe not this shade, but blue it was."_

"_If you say the word 'blue' one more time, young man, I'll buy green and I'll have you be the dress mannequin," Leandra retorted, mustering a smile in spite of her perpetual gloom._

"_Mother, I look a horror in skirts," he replied, showing off his dashing smile._

"_And you're about to be in one, the way you're going on," Leandra said, proving that she was immune to her son's charms, and could match him wit for wit when the occasion called for it._

Isabela smiled sadly and fondly at the memory.

_Oh, Marekh, what must your head be like right now? I can't even fathom what you're going through._

"Must be nice to be so selfish," muttered a soft voice behind her.

She jumped, knocking the silk to the ground much to the chagrin of the shopkeeper, and turned, seeing Anders, a hood drawn up to cover his hair, staring at her, his eyes cold and accusing. She wrinkled her nose at him. "What do you want?"

"I saw you leave his house. Was it a good night? Did you dance the memory away for him?"

She scowled, stepping away from the stall. "You know, we all grieve in our own way. You should try it sometime."

"His mother's gone. You just waltz into the house like you own it."

She rested her hands on her hips. "I would really love to know what goes on inside your head. Not everything is about you, and not every little thing in his life is going to lead him to agree with you. If you're still angry about the fact that he won't join your petty little rebellion—"

"Not so loud!" the mage hissed.

"Oh shut it and listen," Isabela snapped. "He doesn't want any part of your little games, your little war. You want to die for some cause, you go right on ahead, but leave him out of it."

Anders stared at her. "You're in love with him."

Isabela rolled her eyes.

"You are," Anders said, shaking his head, sounding shocked. "You are in love with him. It all makes sense. You're always there, always watching, always doing something to gain his favor, doing anything you can to influence his decisions. You want something more from him."

"Oh, have I gained your disapproval once again?" Isabela fluttered her hands in front of her face. "Oh, Andraste, whatever shall I do? I suppose I should go to the Chantry and seek some kind of atonement. Oh, woe is me, I've fallen from my ship of debauchery, right into an ecstatic rowboat of passion and true love!" She sneered at him. "Anders, you're proving to me, time and again, that you know nothing about how people are, you don't know Hawke as well as you think, and you certainly don't know me. Don't think for once moment that you've got me figured out."

The mage shook his head, a repulsed look on his face. His upper lip curled back from his teeth, and he mirrored her sneering expression. "I wouldn't presume a thing with you, Isabela. I'd hate to see what kind of filth I find."

"You'll have to do better than that," she told him. She waved her hand dismissively. "Go on back to your little hole in the world, Anders. Leave the rest of us to live and enjoy life while we can. The last thing we need is some Chantry priest looking over our shoulders."

"I'm a mage, you whore, not a—"

"You might as well be one, with all the preaching you do," Isabela interrupted. "And if you call me 'whore' one more time, I want coin if I'm expected to listen to you lecture."

He threw up his hands in frustration. "You impossible, selfish, conceited, egotistical, sea-faring, filth-carrying _bitch_."

"Hey, hey, hey!" said a voice, shoving between them. Varric held out his hands. "Blondie. That is no way to speak to Isabela."

"I thought the expression was 'that's no way to speak to a lady?'" Isabela said, mock pouting.

"Rivaini, I don't know what the pirate word for lady is, so let's just say that he can't call you a bitch, because it's rude and a bit too provincial for you." The dwarf looked at Anders. "And shouldn't you be in Darktown? I hear there's a gang fight going on down there. You'll probably have customers."

The mage clenched his fists. He finally pointed a trembling finger at Isabela. "I am watching you," he promised.

"Oh I do like your eyes, Anders," she retorted, "which one shall I pluck out first?"

"Rivaini!" Varric shouted. "Anders. Go the hell away. Isabela, come with me."

"What's so important?" Isabela wanted to know as they departed, walking in the direction of Hawke's house.

"Bodahn can't wake the stupid bastard up. Fenris found an empty bottle of wine in the library, most of it soaked into the carpet, two glasses present. Two guesses to what happened, and the first one doesn't count."

Isabela stopped. "Wait. Last night? I was there last night; I got in after he was asleep."

"Nobody else there?"

"No, the dwarves were already asleep. The hound was in his room. The house was silent." She folded her arms. "He never woke up while I was there, and he didn't move when I left this morning. I only left an hour ago."

"No one else could have gotten in?" Varric frowned. "I'm no expert on being paranoid, Rivaini, but…"

Isabela looked over her shoulder. Anders lingered where they had left him. Isabela stared.

Varric looked at her. "Is he that stupid?" the dwarf inquired, as if he already knew the answer.

"Let's take a look at that glass, shall we?" Isabela said evenly. They walked to the mansion.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no time in the Fade. There was a drifting sense of simply _being_, but there was no time. Marekh Hawke paced slowly in a circle. He was in a familiar place, the old house in Lothering that had been home for most of his life. The walls were simple wood, the floor a solid packed earth, with wooden planks laid neatly across, set into a firm floor.

At the moment, he believed he was alone. He had the faintest memory of being in Kirkwall, of being in his library, and then Anders brought wine. _Clever,_ he thought grimly. _And I wasn't smart enough to see you coming._

"_**So set in your ways,"**_ said the spirit lingering behind him.

"Ah, Justice, I was wondering when the puppet master was going to show up."

"_**I will tolerate none of your temperament."**_

"Ah, yes, you're absolutely right," Hawke said. "I talk too much. I'm a horror. I know."

"_**We are going to talk. You will not dismiss me."**_

"Right, because you pushed Anders to take that last step. Remind me to buy Fenris a drink for all the times he was right about you."

A fist connected with his chest, sending him flying against the wall. He grunted, his shoulders cracking the wood paneling. "Oof. Nice one, Justice. Been practicing?"

The spirit growled.

He looked up, facing it. He was looking at Anders, blonde, pale, blue pits of fire where his eyes should have been. His lips worked around his words, and the voice no longer had any compassion, nor even the slightest hint of humanity. "_**You act the jester, laughing, dismissing all concerns and true worries in this world. You are so unconcerned. I will make you understand."**_

"I understand," Hawke said, getting to his knees. "You want a little war. You want to push people into your path. You want revenge on a thousand-year-old religion. You think the world owes you something. You're pathetic."

The spirit kicked him. Hawke gritted his teeth. It might be the Fade, but the pain in his ribs was very real. He kept his gaze on Anders, on Justice. "So you think if you beat me into submission here that I'll just crawl into your path out there?"

"_**You are standing in my way,"**_ Justice said. "_**Anders will not do what is necessary. He will not take the steps to get your attention. I suggested removing a precious thing from your path. Another mage did that for me."**_

Hawke braced himself against the wall and stood up. "I told you once, when two grown men can throw fireballs, threats don't mean much."

The spirit roared and he felt a hand clench his throat, pinning him to the wall. He looked down at Anders' face, the lips drawn back into a snarl, the eyes staring at him, fiery and unfeeling. The mage's other hand warped and shifted, and an ethereal blade made its presence known. The sharp edge touched Hawke's throat.

"_**Shall we see,"**_ Justice hissed, "_**what kind of man you are?"**_

"You die in the Fade," Hawke said, "and you're made Tranquil out there. I'd think you, of all people, would have a heart on that end, Anders."

With unnatural strength, the spirit smashed him against the wall, splintering the boards. The tip of the ghostly sword touched above Hawke's heart. "_**You think I am above killing?"**_ the spirit screamed at him. "_**Do you think that I am above killing **_**you**_**? How precious are you, I wonder? What is to stop me from destroying you and then trampling over your little band of followers? I am Justice, and I am Vengeance. My very existence cries out for the blood of those who stand against me. What are you in this little world, Marekh Hawke, save a tiny mage who leads where others follow? What are you?"**_

Hawke laughed.

The spirit stared, and punched him against the wall repeatedly. "_**I see you for what you are. You are a small man, a mage who knows the realities of this world only so long as they suit his views. You are small, insignificant before me. With one act, I could force you to see."**_

Hawke kept laughing.

Enraged, the spirit threw him to the ground. Hawke crouched on all fours, his rips aching, his shoulders burning, and his head a mess of pain. He grinned, and spat blood to the floor. He looked up at the spirit, blood smearing his teeth. "That the best you can do, Justice? I'm disappointed."

"_**There is no jest here, Marekh Hawke. Why do you laugh?"**_

"Because it's all a great joke." Hawke slowly got to his feet. He steadied himself, and smiled at the spirit. "You think you've got me figured out."

The spirit faltered.

"So convinced that the world will just bend to your whim. My father used to say that mages are dangerous because we're powerful. He also told me that the only thing I ever truly had to fear was myself." He flexed his fingers. "You don't know a damn thing about me. You think that I'm going to change my mind just because you drag me into the Fade?"

The spirit stared at him. "_**It does not need to be this way,"**_ the voice said, almost pleading. "_**You and I could be allied in this cause. Anders… he will do what is necessary, but he will not do it of his own will. He must be led. Like a saarebas on a leash,"**_ the spirit spat, "_**he must be led to the tune of another."**_

Hawke folded his arms. "I'm not playing your game."

"_**I think you will."**_

"You go right on thinking that." He looked around the room. "Do you know what this place is? It's where I grew up in Lothering. Interesting, don't you think, that of all the places in the Fade, this is where we have this little conversation?" He smirked at Justice. "On and on about blood mages and the evil they possess, but wipe away that precious conscience, and what are you? You're a mind reading abomination, same as all the rest."

The blue eyes exploded with fire, and Anders lurched at him, his hands warped into claws, aiming for Hawke's throat. Hawke balled his fist and struck Anders solidly across the face. The other mage stumbled, but kept his footing. He attacked again, but Hawke hit him a second time, his knuckles bruising. Anders snarled nonsense words at him, the voice shifting in tone between spirit and mage.

Finally, the voice, unmistakably Anders', spoke, sounding on the verge of desperation: "_Why_ won't you listen? They will kill us all. Your wealth only protects you so far. Your friends, these so-called allies, do you really think that enough coin wouldn't make them look the other way? You are an idiot if you think that elf won't sell you out. You think your whore wouldn't turn her back at the first opportunity? Even Varric, he'd let you go at a moment's opportunity."

Hawke shook his head. "What must it be like," he mused, "to be trapped in your head?"

"At least I know my mind," Anders snapped. "At least I know what I need out of life, at least I understand the risks."

"There are always risks. If there weren't, it wouldn't be life." Hawke sighed. "You idiot. You think this will make anything right?" He knelt in front of Anders, and gripped his jaw, staring hard into the other man's eyes. "I was never your enemy," he said quietly, "and now you've gone and made yourself mine."

The mage's eyes flashed blue. "_**No,"**_ the spirit growled. "_**You are not leaving here, not until you understand."**_

"There's nothing to understand," Hawke said. "You made your choice, Anders. Now you live with that, and leave me out of the rest."

"_**We need you,"**_ the spirit said, and it sounded utterly pathetic. The fiery gaze faded. Anders looked terrified. "Hawke…"

Hawke said nothing. He stood up and walked to the door of the house. He touched it, and a fond look came over his face. "I wish Carver could see you," he said to Anders.

He pushed the door open, and stepped into the other world.

* * *

Fenris was standing watch in Hawke's bedroom when he heard the groan from the bed. "Maker," Marekh Hawke muttered as he woke up, "what dragon hit me?"

"I suspect a dragon that resembles a mage and squats in Darktown," Fenris said. He crossed the room to the desk and poured a glass of water from a metal pitcher. He handed it to Hawke. "You've been asleep for three days. How do you feel?"

Hawke took the glass. "Like the dog's been using my head as a chew bone."

Fenris smiled faintly. "Fair enough."

Hawke drank slowly. "What happened?" he asked, his voice raspy. He coughed into his fist. "After we found Mother, I came back here, I saw Gamlen, and then it's all a blur. I don't remember."

Fenris folded his arms. "The wine I found in your library wasn't from my house, and it smelled oddly."

Hawke raised his head. "That idiot," he said. Then he grimaced, and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"Are you all right?"

"No. Three days. That bastard took three days from me. What happened with my mother? Where's Gamlen? Did Aveline find anything down there?"

"Your mother's to be laid to rest tomorrow. Aveline held as thorough an inquiry as she could. The Knight Commander was… insistent that templars investigate with her."

Hawke nodded.

"Aveline convinced the Knight Commander that you'd taken ill. It is why no templars have come by the house."

"It's not like it's a secret that I'm a mage," Hawke said.

"No, but you do have friends who wish to keep you a free mage." Fenris folded his arms. "Three years ago I would not have raised my hand to defend you."

"So what changed your mind?"

"If I must spell it out for you, clearly that wine did more than knock you out," Fenris said dryly.

Hawke grinned. "I suppose you and I understand one another."

"I suppose we do." Fenris shook his head. "I may kill Anders, should we find him again."

"… Again?"

"He's gone into hiding, somewhere in the city. His clinic is empty. Varric hasn't heard anything."

"Three days," Hawke said. He rubbed at his head again. "When we find him, let me beat him senseless. Then you can kill him."


	4. Chapter 4

Even though Gamlen, Bodahn Feddic and his son Sandal, and a few of Leandra's highborn friends were the only ones to attend the funeral directly, Hawke knew Varric and the others were nearby, offering what support they could. He said little during the service, and kept as noble an air as he could when the Grand Cleric bade the Maker to welcome Leandra Hawke into His grace, that she might live eternally at His side, with her children and her husband. The Grand Cleric looked at Hawke once, as if daring him to argue with her, or perhaps hoping he might offer some thoughts of his own, but Hawke said nothing.

He tossed the first handful of earth on his mother's coffin, and hoped that the Free Marches would keep her warm until his father found her in the afterlife. It was a simple hope, a simple prayer. He wasn't much for ceremony.

When the service was over, Gamlen told Hawke to come by his home more often. "We're the only family either of us has left," he said solemnly. One of the highborn ladies tittered that it was a pity Hawke hadn't married before his mother's death; how sad that she would never see him wed. Hawke ignored her.

The gravediggers set to work filling in the hole in the earth. They worked silently, efficiently. They were honest men, doing an honest work. It was not much, Hawke thought, but it was a life. It was more than some had in the city.

The Grand Cleric lingered by his side after the others had gone, as he watched.

"I wonder," she said evenly, "what type of man sees his family to the earth and not himself?"

"I thought killing oneself was a sin in the eyes of the Maker," Hawke replied.

The Grand Cleric smiled faintly. "You have buried both of your parents. Your mother told me of your brother and sister. Your sister was left behind, with no burial. Did you commend your brother to the earth where he fell, Master Hawke?"

"The Deep Roads gave my brother a good resting place, Your Grace. He'll hunt darkspawn to the end of eternity down there. I like to think his ghost scares the wits out of them, and drinks happily with other ghosts in the afterlife."

"A laugh on your lips always, hm?" the Grand Cleric inquired. "To see the world as a joke without worth is no way to live."

"You don't understand. It's all worth something. If you can't laugh at life, you've got nothing." Hawke sighed, looking at the grave. "Tell me something, Your Grace, if you found yourself to be the cause, indirectly, of your mother's death, what would you do?"

The priestess folded her hands. "If you are speaking of your capacity for magic, then I would say that your family was known for it long before you were born."

"But I am a mage," Hawke said, "and a mage killed my mother. What type of man am I, if am capable of that same kind of act?"

The Grand Cleric looked thoughtfully at him. She looked beyond his shoulder, at Varric and the others, gathered in a group, waiting.

"I would say that you have many barriers in your way before you succumb to the kind of evil that a man like that is capable of," the Grand Cleric said, as if she were addressing a doubting believer.

"What? No speech about the Maker having His own will for us mortals?"

The Grand Cleric waved her hand at him. "Master Hawke, it's not in my nature to tell others what they can and cannot do. We all serve the Maker in our own ways. I look at the world around me, and I believe that there are good people who do good things because they wish to do so. I also believe there are evil people who do evil for the same reason."

"The Maker guides our hands when it suits His interests, then?"

"The Maker guides us along our paths, Master Hawke," the Grand Cleric said. "He does not walk them for us."

He considered that.

"Your mother rests in the company of her children and her husband, Master Hawke. Someday, you will join them. This is the will of the Maker."

"Kind words, Your Grace."

The Grand Cleric looked at him, a slightly scolding look in her eyes. "I believe your test is due to come, Master Hawke. I ask you this: when the path presents itself, what will you choose? Will it be the path of simple action, or will it be the more challenging path, the one that will rise to greet you with slings, arrows, and all manner of blades?"

He thought for a moment. "I'd rather just live," he said, "but if the slings, arrows, and blades are bound to give me a more interesting life, then I'll take them."

The Grand Cleric smiled. "I think, Master Hawke, that you will be all right. You have allies, even if your enemies do not realize it."

"You'd know something of my enemies, Your Grace?"

"We are always our own worst enemy, Master Hawke. I suspect that you know this more than most, with the power you command." She raised her hands and placed them on the top of his head. "Walk with the Maker's favor, child."

"Your Grace," he said.

She nodded, lowered her hands, and departed. He looked at the grave. It was filled. He knelt by it, glanced around, and then traced his fingertips in a pattern. A slow bundle of flowers, made of ice, formed atop the earth.

"Rest easy, Mother," he said quietly. "Carver, she's for you to look after now. Bethany, keep her happy. Father… do what you do best. I suppose I'll see you all when I see you."

He stood up, dusted off his trousers, and joined Varric and the others.

* * *

They gathered in Varric's rooms above the Hanged Man. Varric proposed a toast, and Hawke accepted it. They drank to Leandra Hawke's memory. It was, Hawke thought, one of the finer moments in the past several months of struggle and frustration.

Later in the evening, he wandered to the docks, Merrill at his side. She swayed on her feet as they looked across the waters at the Gallows.

"It's frightening," she said.

"What? The Gallows?"

"Yes. What do you suppose would happen to us if they caught us?"

"Tranquility," Hawke said flatly.

"What? Without question? They'd kill us just for being?"

"From what I hear, the Knight Commander's a terror. She'd like us all dead." He picked up a stone and hurled it across the water. "However, I like to judge a person for myself." He looked at his hands. "I could do it, you know," he said. "I could cut my wrists, use that magic, and I don't think I'd regret a moment of it."

Merrill held out her hands. "The first time I did," she said, "I did it because I wanted an answer. I wanted to know what happened to Tamlen. When I found the mirror, I wanted to purify it. I needed my answers."

"Were the answers worth the price?"

She shrugged. "I haven't figured that out yet." She sighed. "Three years I've been in this city, and it feels like nothing has changed."

Hawke looked at her. "I'm sensing a 'but…'"

"But," she said, "things _have_ changed. Maybe not for me – my clan still hates me, you know – but for the rest of the city, things are not the same. Something is coming our way, Hawke. I'm afraid of it. Are you?"

Hawke looked at his hands. "I think," he said, "that the only thing I have to be afraid of at this point is myself."

"Are you afraid of yourself?" Merrill wanted to know.

Hawke pulled his knife from his belt. He held the blade against his wrist, but did not apply pressure. "It would be so easy," he said to Merrill. "It'd be so easy to be like those other mages. Just imagine what we could do, if we followed their path. We could rule this city. We could do anything." He sighed. "We could be just like the templars. Only we'd be ruling with blood and magic."

She reached out her hand and gently pulled the knife away. "Isabela will be quite cross with you if you do that," she told him.

"What? Rule with blood and magic?"

She smiled. "Oh, no, I rather think she'd like being a ruler of a city. I just don't think she'd like if you were covered in blood. She doesn't like it when you get injured in fights, you know."

"What? Are you saying that you girls talk about me behind my back?"

"I think Isabela loves you," Merrill said, her eyes sparkling.

Hawke snorted.

"She does," Merrill insisted. "She thinks I don't see how she turns ever-so-slightly scarlet when you walk into the tavern. I see how she looks at you."

"So how about when she breaks my heart, hm?"

"Oh I don't think Isabela would do that. I think she really does love you. You know, the way that Isabela loves things." Merrill flushed. "I'm babbling, aren't I? I should not let Varric buy me drinks."

Hawke kissed her on the forehead. "You remind me of Bethany," he said affectionately. "I wish you'd known her. You two would've been great friends, I'm sure of it."

Merrill smiled. "I hope you and I are friends."

"Absolutely."

The elf grinned at him. "Shall we head back to Lowtown? You can tell me about the dragon that hit you in the head."

"What dragon?"

Merrill skipped a bit as she walked. "Fenris said that you said a dragon hit you. He's talking to me again. I suppose he was just very, very upset after what happened. He said you mentioned a dragon."

Hawke rolled his eyes, and they started to walk back. "Oh. A dragon. Yes, well, this dragon was just about two meters tall, and it had feathers…"

* * *

Hawke left Merrill at her home, and wandered back to Hightown. He roamed the streets, sticking to the shadows. No guards paid him any mind, and he walked until he came to the lower markets. He looked around, realized he'd walked past the mansion. The more he thought about it, he'd spent too much time there.

_Three days. I lost three days because of him. Three days where I could have been preparing for Mother's funeral, where I could have talked to Aveline, to explain what happened, to put her on the right path. The murderer's dead, it doesn't matter, but what if there were others?_

He sighed heavily.

"Oi, mate."

He froze. Idiots out after dark, looking for an easy mark, as Varric might say.

"That's right, mate. Hands in the air. Now give up the coin you've got. I'm patient."

Hawke wasn't carrying his staff. He looked at his hands.

"You know," he said, "you shouldn't approach strange men after dark."

The thief laughed behind him. "I'm sure of that. Now hand over the coin. I'm not much for killing, but I'll do it if have to."

Hawke shrugged, and turned around. The thief reached out his hands. Hawke's right hand erupted into a ball of fire, and he smashed his palm forward into the thief's face, burning his screams away before they could grow louder. When the man collapsed to the ground, his face smoldering, blistered and burned, Hawke looked down at him, a cold feeling in his chest.

_Not helpless by any means,_ he thought.

He brushed his hands off; knelt by the body and retrieved the coin purse the man carried, as well as his knife, a finely made Dalish weapon, from the look of it. "Like I said," Hawke scolded the unconscious thief, "you shouldn't approach strangers after dark."

He pocketed the coin and walked to Lowtown.

* * *

The Hanged Man was a welcome sight. He walked through the door, found it mostly empty. He heard no loud laughter, so Varric wasn't holding court. He found Isabela at her table near the wall, a bottle and glass in front of her. He sat down, and tossed the coin purse to her. "Look what I found," he said. "A little bird tried to rob me. Clipped his wings, I did, and here's an egg for my trouble."

"Oh, you certainly know how to sweet-talk a girl," Isabela teased, inspecting the pouch. "Not just eggs, I see," she said, plucking a gleaming sapphire from the pouch. "Baby birds and all," she added, finding two rubies among the coin. She smiled at him. "I thought you'd done your drinking for the evening. Thought you'd head back to Hightown, with its peace and quiet."

He shrugged. "What is that, anyway?"

"Peace and quiet? Don't know. Never experienced it."

He nodded.

Isabela watched his face. "Hawke," she said sternly. "Talk to me."

"What's to say?" he responded. "I failed when I was needed. To make matters worse, I have to watch my back among my friends now. Bastard isn't even my friend. He's an idiot whom I help on occasion because it suits me to do so. He's not my friend." He sighed and rested his chin on his palm. "Should I kill him?" he asked Isabela. "Because nothing would make me happier than to kill him."

"No," she said, downing her drink, "you should come upstairs with me."

"Oh, so we can plot to kill him together?"

"No, sweet thing," she told him, "because you slept for three days and I need a tumble."

"At this rate, I'll never sleep again."

"Well, if you insist," she said, standing up and holding out her hand. "I have a lovely bed upstairs, and it's been dying to meet you."

"We've already met," he told her.

"Ah, but this is a new room. It's much comfier." She grinned at him. "Care to join me?"

"So serious all of a sudden?" he wanted to know.

"Silly man," she said, grasping his hand. "You know that I'm always deadly serious."

"Just the kind of woman my mother warned me about," he said, but there was a touch of sadness in his voice.

"Shush," Isabela said, dragging him up the stairs. "Not another word out of you."

* * *

In the moments after, they would both wonder if the true feelings really started then. They would not speak of them, and Isabela insisted that Hawke simply stay in the bed, just stay still, there's nothing to fear out there, and, besides, we have a trigger-happy dwarf and his trusty lady crossbow to keep us safe. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, her skin warm, his own slightly cold, as if he were too lost in dark thoughts to truly be in the moment.

"Sweet thing," she said, "if you don't come out of that broody well you're in, I'm going to drop a bucket on your head."

"He's going to tear me apart," Hawke said, his voice quiet. "He thinks he's got me figured out."

"He can't touch you here, Hawke. The bastard's gone to ground. So long as he's out of sight, you're safe."

"But you aren't," he said. "You and the others. That spirit wants me to suffer, wants to make us all feel it. He'll do whatever he has to do, just to make me suffer." He looked at her. "You should leave," he told her. "Take Merrill and Fenris with you. Varric, Aveline, and I will stay. You three leave; get out of the city. I don't know what he'll do next, but I've already lost one person, I couldn't stand it if I lost you… or anyone else, really. I mean, you are quite important, obviously, but it's got nothing to do with—"

"Shut up," she told him, and kissed him. "Stop talking, you silly man. Just stop talking, for once in your bloody life."

"What if he kills you, Isabela? What if he goes against one of you to get to me?"

"Then I'll trust you to do the right thing and have him assassinated in my memory," Isabela said. "I know a very good assassin."

Hawke smiled faintly. "I have no doubt."

"Hawke, your face is doing that twitching thing where I know you've got something profound on the tip of your tongue. What is it?"

"I'm afraid," he admitted.

"Of what? We're safe inside four walls, with no one to hurt us, or bother us. We're untouchable here."

"I'm still afraid."

"Of what, sweet thing?"

"The only thing I was ever truly afraid of." He raised his right hand. She saw a faint pressure mark, a thin point of a blade over his wrist. "The only thing I was ever really afraid of was myself," he murmured. "Suppose it's the only thing worth being afraid of."

"Hush," she said. "I'd tell you to sleep, but I suspect you've had quite enough of it. Just be quiet. Enjoy this. It's warm here, it's safe, and there's nothing that can touch us but us. Do you hear me?"

He nodded.

"Good." She rested her chin on top of his head, her hair falling down around her shoulders, brushing his face. His fingers tangled in the long ends, thoughtfully tracing the path of the waves.

"What are you thinking now?" she wanted to know.

"It's foolish."

"That's what makes it fun. Tell me."

"I was wondering what your hair looks like when the salt air's running through it, standing on the bough of a ship, racing into the horizon." He smiled at her. "Wouldn't that be the life?"

"It _is_ the life," she said.

"I'd like to see a horizon like that someday," he mumbled, and shifted his position on the bed. She held onto him until he was dozing. She did not fall asleep, and instead waited until he had gone drifting into dreams. She kissed his forehead, and gently left the bed, dressing before he noticed her missing, and slipped out the door.

* * *

Isabela stormed into Anders' clinic. "Don't you hide from me you cowardly little shit," she snarled into the darkness. "I know you're in here."

She looked around the room.

"Fine. Hide away. Coward," she spat. "You poisoned him. Three days lost, and you did it for what? He's on to you. He knows what you've done. His mother buried, his friends at his side, watching over him, and where are you? Hiding in your little hole, hoping the world doesn't catch you off your guard. I hope you've got a deep hole, Anders, because if I find you first, then there won't be any judge to avenge you. I promise you that."

She turned on her heel.

"_**So certain of yourself, whore?"**_

She stopped in the doorway and slowly turned her head. "I'm not afraid of you," she told the spirit. "If you had the first clue about what we are, about what this group of people was, then you'd know the first rule: if you touch one of us, you touch all of us."

"_**I was not aware you understood loyalty. How quaint."**_

"Piss off," she snapped. "You understand nothing. A few of us are standing with him. You tried your little trick to get him on your side, but he's _nothing_ like you."

"_**You deny yourself even as you elevate him. He will listen eventually. There is another shift coming in this city. Tell me, whore, when the time comes, will your loyalty to his bed bind you to him, or will your desire for life lead you astray?"**_

She froze.

She heard the spirit make a sound like a chuckle, but it was devoid of mirth. "_**Thank you for answering my question."**_

"Which question?"

"_**The question that is mine to know, and yours to seek out. Begone, whore. I'm certain that your fate is waiting for you in the hands of a monster far more frightening than I."**_

Isabela refused to show him fear. She turned her back and walked steadily from the clinic, until she was out of sight, and then she ran.


	5. Chapter 5

Three weeks later, she was standing in the front room of Hawke's mansion, screaming at Aveline that her life was in danger, didn't the guard captain understand that, the bloody qunari could wait, there was more at stake: namely, Isabela argued, her own life.

Hawke joked that he wanted to grab a chair to watch, but Aveline silenced him with a sharp look. The qunari were planning something, readying for battle. The time was then, there was something going on. The tensions in the city between mages and templars had distracted them from the qunari threat long enough, and now it was spilling out everywhere. There was no more time to hesitate. Hawke had to help, Aveline told him. There was no choice.

Hawke looked at Isabela.

"Well," she admitted awkwardly, "the two things might be connected."

Aveline gawked.

Hawke folded his arms. "I'm listening," he said.

She explained. The relic she'd been searching for since they'd first met, it surfaced, there were mages who wanted it, and the qunari probably wanted it too. If he came with her, then this might fix itself.

Aveline protested. The Arishok would not wait. They had to act.

Hawke looked at Isabela. His gray eyes studied her, his brow furrowed, deeply in thought. She could have demanded an answer, but a part of her did not feel as though she deserved one. In the three weeks since Leandra's death, since the last time she'd spent an evening with him, she'd grown more distant, more reserved. She had not told him of her encounter with the spirit, nor of the growing ache in her gut every time Hawke was nearby. She had not told him so many things. She hated herself for it, but she could not risk him, not him, not this man whom she… desperately needed in her life.

_A friend when I needed one, and even a bit more, but I won't risk you._

"Hawke," she said, her voice strained.

"Your life depends on this," he said. He held out his hand. "We help Isabela."

"You trust her this much?" Aveline wanted to know. She cast a disapproving gaze at Isabela.

"Probably not," Isabela answered for him. "I wouldn't." She looked at him. She did not have to say thank you. To say it would reveal her secrets. She smiled faintly at him instead. "So what are we waiting for?"

* * *

Hours later, she was on the road, fleeing Kirkwall for Ostwick, the Tome of Koslun in her arms, Hawke and the others long memories in her mind. She would not turn back, she would keep running, she would abandon that life, that precious hub of camaraderie, laughter, affection, and friendship. She would turn her back on it all.

_**Your fate is in the hands of a monster far more frightening than I.**_

She could hear the spirit's taunting words.

_And what will he say in the future?_ her often-silent conscience accused. _What will Marekh Hawke say in the future, should he survive tonight? What will he tell people? There was a woman, and she made herself out to be many things, while proving that she was once and always a thief, a liar, something not worthy of anyone's friendship or love._

Love.

What a stupid word.

She ran.

She ran and she ran, until her left knee twisted and she tumbled to the ground with a shriek. She kept her grip on the Tome, that precious bargaining chip. She gritted her teeth against a scream and got to her feet, moaning against the pain. She limped a few more meters, agony in each wobbling step.

_What if he dies?_

_What if you could have stopped it? What if he falls and there's no one to remember him? What if they all die, and it was because you ran away? What if… what if this is _real _and you're giving it up because you're more afraid of yourself than you are of any monster?_

_And didn't he say that that was the only thing he truly feared? Himself?_

She stopped.

She turned around.

_Damn you, Marekh Hawke. You are not dying for me, or for those people who don't deserve you. Stay alive until I get there, you stupid, silly, infuriating man, or I'll drag you back from the Void myself._

* * *

The Arishok took the Tome reverently. He then informed Hawke that Isabela would come with him, and there was no alternative.

"You've got your relic," Hawke corrected. "She stays here with us."

"The thief will come with me. I will not accept anything less."

"It's not happening," Hawke said.

The Arishok glared. Then he raised his hand. "I challenge you, then, Hawke for the life of the thief. If you win, she remains, and we depart. When I triumph…"

"Yes, yes, yes," Hawke replied. "All mouth, no trousers. Show me some action."

The Arishok growled at him. "Then you accept."

"I accept."

"No!" Isabela shouted. "If you're going to duel anyone, you duel me!"

The Arishok scowled. "You are unworthy."

She looked at Hawke. "Don't," she told him.

He shrugged. "You had a good start. So let me make it count."

She had no choice. She watched him fight, watched him counter each of the Arishok's actions, each blow of his blades, each bellow from his massive throat. Hawke battled, never speaking, simply focused on the moment. When one blade crushed against his right shoulder, sending him into the ground, blood not simply saturating but _becoming_ his armor, Isabela felt her heart stop.

_No._

_Get up._

She heard Varric breathe a long stream of curses beside her.

Hawke got up.

Fenris shouted something behind her, not in the common tongue, but something she suspected was as encouraging as the Tevinter language got.

She took a step forward.

"Get up!" she shrieked at him. "Fight that stupid ox!"

The Arishok looked at her. There was pure hatred in his eyes. He turned his feet, ever so slightly.

A magic staff came crashing against the qunari's head. He roared, and Hawke leapt up, his hands wrapped around the Arishok's horns, flame licking at his fingers. "Where's your damn honor, huh?" Hawke growled, and lit the qunari aflame.

He dropped, snatched up his staff, and cast a massive fireball at the ox-man, knocking him back into the stairs. The qunari snarled words, but Hawke cast another ball of fire. He kept doing it until the qunari, trembling, dying, bleeding, raised a hand, and murmured, "We… shall return…"

Hawke didn't care. His left hand was lit with flame. "You should have left," he said, his voice strained, "when you had the chance."

The Arishok looked at him. There was something like respect in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Hawke smashed his hand against the qunari's face. His wrist caught on the Arishok's horn; the skin tore. Blood mixed with the fire, and something twitched in Marekh Hawke's face, a sensation of power that he'd never felt before.

The Arishko fell back, dead.

Hawke stumbled back from the body.

There was silence. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, pulsing and pounding in his ears, and the steady thrum of it in his wrist, the blood streaming down his arm. He dropped his staff, felt the throbbing pain in his right arm, the massive wound in his shoulder, the blood falling everywhere. He didn't know how to use this, didn't know what to do with it.

He heard voices, the Knight Commander shouting, "Is it over?"

He lifted his head, managed a small grin, and said, "It's over."

Isabela was at his side, staring at him. "You need—"

"I bloody know," he responded.

"Come on."

"Going."

He stumbled. She caught him. Fenris closed in, grabbed his other arm. "To the house?" the elf wanted to know.

"Not much choice," Hawke rasped.

"Don't let them see you weak, Hawke," Fenris whispered.

Hawke stood up. Isabela moved to his left side. She gripped his arm. "I've got him," she told Fenris. The elf stepped back.

Aveline moved into his place. "Come on, Hawke. You know how to walk. It isn't bloody hard."

"Walking out," Hawke muttered. "Harder than you think."

"You don't walk out of here, Hawke, and I'll bash you about the head until you do."

"The abuse I suffer for you, Captain Aveline," Hawke joked. "Your man Donnic's liable to be jealous."

The guard captain smiled tightly. "Move. I won't have you dying here. It's not proper."

He limped out of the throne room, the crowd parting, the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter arguing amongst themselves, ignoring him. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to see either of them. He got down the stairs, and out the door.

It was agony, the movement of each step sending more blood streaming out of his body.

"Maker," he whispered, "I didn't think I had that much blood."

"You won't, at this rate," Aveline said sharply. "Hurry it up, Isabela."

"Where are we going?" Isabela needed to know.

"The mansion?" Fenris suggested.

Varric grimaced. "They'll all be looking there. Hanged Man's safer."

"Anywhere's great," Hawke slurred. "A bed, a few drinks, I'm right as… puddles."

"Right as _rain_, you stupid man," Isabela corrected him.

"Mansion's close by," Varric muttered. "No right choice here. Take him back. Come on. I'll go get the stupid mage, see if he's around. In the meantime…"

"Merrill. I'll get Merrill," Isabela said.

"She was following us from Lowtown, but she's no healer," Fenris growled. He gritted his teeth. "Varric, we have only one option. I will go with you."

Varric raised his hands. "Just promise not to kill him."

"Not until Hawke is safe, I assure you."

"Off with you!" Aveline thundered. "We're taking him to the house. Get on with it."

Varric and Fenris took off running.

Hawke listed to one side. Isabela wrapped an arm around his shoulders. She felt his blood leaching onto her skin. "Eyes open," she snapped at him.

"You have lovely eyes," he responded.

"Bloody hell. Aveline! Clear the way!"

Aveline took the lead, waving her hands at the gathered crowds. "Please. We have wounded. Please return to your homes. The Keep is not safe. Go to the chantry. Go to your homes if you can, but you must let us through to care for our wounded." She was polite, firm, and professional. At any other time, Isabela might have admired her.

They made it down the Keep's treacherous steps, only a few meters between them and the Hawke mansion. Hawke stumbled forward, blood dribbling from his mouth.

"Where is this all coming from?" Isabela murmured in horror.

"Get him inside," Aveline said. "I have to look for Merrill. If we can't find Anders…"

"Don't say that name," Isabela hissed. She pulled him up and through the front door. The trail of blood behind them spoke volumes. Isabela did not want to hear it.

"Maker's breath!" Bodahn Feddic cried as they emerged from the entryway. "What's… by the Ancestors, is that all of his blood?"

"Bodahn, we need clean sheets, towels, hot water, anything you've got," Aveline said sharply. "He's badly wounded."

"Is your healer friend…?"

"They're looking for him. For now, we must do what we can. Please, Bodahn. Get what we need."

The dwarf nodded, and called to his son. Sandal understood urgency, it seemed, because he immediately went to the linen cabinets.

With Aveline's help, Isabela hauled Hawke up the stairs to the bedroom. They got him as far as the bed, and managed to pull the blood soaked armor from his body. His skin had gone ash-gray. Even his hair appeared to have lost some of its color. His eyes were half-closed.

Isabela shook him. "Eyes open!" she shouted at him.

He grunted softly, and slowly his eyes opened. "Hullo," he murmured, "guess you're alive then."

"Hawke!"

"Mm." His head rolled to the other side.

Isabela gritted her teeth. She looked at Aveline.

"I'm going to look for Merrill," the guard captain said. "Keep him alive."

"I'm no bloody healer!"

"No, but you're some kind of bizarre lucky charm at this point. Keep. Him. Alive." Aveline turned and raced out the door.

Bodahn appeared with a bowl of hot water, while Sandal trailed behind him with towels. Isabela pointed to the table beside the bed. "I need to see what I can do," she explained.

"We'll watch for the others," Bodahn assured her. He smiled weakly and pulled Sandal with him. "Come along, Sandal."

They departed.

Isabela sat alone, and turned her attention to Hawke's right shoulder. The wound was massive, a perfect V-shaped cleft in his flesh, straight through to the bone, having remarkably missed it, though she could see the white outline among the ragged muscle. Blood welled up from the injury, and she soaked a towel in the hot water, pressing it against the shoulder, doing what she could. She hoped it would be enough until real help arrived.

_I got you into this,_ she thought miserably. _Stay alive. Just a bit longer._


	6. Chapter 6

Fenris and Varric returned empty-handed. The elf was furious, growling curses as he paced the library. Varric lingered in the bedroom with Isabela. Aveline returned with Merrill, who admitted that she only knew one healing spell and it was not a strong one. She would try what she could, but they needed Anders to fully heal Hawke. He needed to be found.

Isabela looked at the unconscious man in the bed.

"I'll find him," she said.

"We looked everywhere," Varric told her.

"Did you look in his clinic?"

"Only a few refugees there. He wasn't. They said he's gone to ground." Varric sighed. "Don't know what to do," he grunted.

Isabela stood up. "He's in his clinic," she said. "He's not left."

"How do you know?"

"Because that damn spirit won't let him," she said. She looked at Aveline. "I'll be back soon. Keep him alive. If he dies, hit him for me."

"Isabela..."

"I know," she said. "It's my fault. That's why I'm doing this."

She walked out of the house, her feet barely keeping her upright. She wanted to scream, to shriek grief at the sky, to rage against anyone who might argue against this act. She would hear nothing of the Maker's will, and no arguments for this to be the desire of anything or anyone. She picked up the pace and ran.

* * *

She pushed the door open and faced the mage. He gave her an odd look, and then casually said, "I suspect something on your mind."

"Were you hiding down here? While Varric and Fenris were looking for you?"

"I can do without further lectures. There are wounded people around here if you couldn't tell."

"Hawke's hurt. Badly."

"Isn't that a shame," he said dismissively.

Isabela walked up to him and slapped him. He looked at her. "Do not touch me."

"He's going to die," she snarled at him.

"Then perhaps he'll finally understand," Anders said, his voice sharp and soft. "I'm only useful to him in times of great personal peril. My cause is just, and he doesn't see."

Isabela shoved him. "You think this is a _game_?"

"I think you're afraid," he said, too calmly. "I think you're afraid that this is a game you'll lose, and you'll lose because he couldn't see past you."

"You bastard," she shouted. "You want so badly to be the center. You want him to look at you and see some kind of _hero_? Damn you, Anders, but you're coming with me, and you're going to save his life, because he saved this entire damned city, and none of them will care if he's dead! Do you think anyone in this city will give a damn about you, or me, or anyone else if he dies? How long do you think our protection lasts if he's gone?"

A muscle in his face twitched. He looked at his hands. Several silent moments roamed between them. Anders finally picked up his staff from its resting place near the wall. "Lead on," he said quietly.


	7. Chapter 7

Hawke dreamed.

He was in the Deep Roads. Carver stood at his side, his arms folded, an unfamiliar sword strapped to his back, staring ahead into the tunnels. "What's on your mind?" Hawke said.

"Are you asking for my opinion?"

"Wouldn't you rather that than me _telling_ you what your opinion is?"

Carver smirked. "Everything's still a joke, I see."

"It's always a joke. Now talk to me, Carver."

His face resumed its firm expression. "I think you've made a bad call," he said. "Several of them, really, but one that might cost you everything."

Hawke nodded. "Mother."

"She was one of them."

"Have you seen her?"

"No. I haven't seen her, but I sense that she's happy, with Father, and Bethany. They're far away from all this darkness, that madness that you and I crave." Carver shook his head. "I'm… comfortable here, in this place. The Deep Roads suit me. I kill all manner of beasts, and they keep coming. I get the glory in death that that I never had in life." He smiled faintly at Hawke. "I suppose it's only right, isn't it? The Hawke brothers fighting it out to the end of eternity, death be damned and all that."

Hawke shrugged. "I wasn't intent on dying."

"And all over a _girl_," Carver teased. He suddenly grinned, a mirror to Hawke's own smile. "We are a pair, aren't we, brother? Imagine the trouble we could've caused, rich and entitled, highborn brats that we are, eh?"

Hawke returned the wild grin. "I've missed you, brother."

"I never though I'd say it, but I've missed you, too." Carver sighed. "I miss our fights, our constant arguments. All those times I said I'd beat you senseless, then you'd laugh, and I'd forget why I was angry to begin with. Mother hated when we fought; Father thought it was a laugh a minute, of course."

"Think we reminded him of himself?"

"Somehow I don't think Father was quite the terror that we were."

"Mischief at all times?" Hawke wondered aloud.

"Oh, think on it," Carver said. "We could've owned bloody Lothering. Keep that pesky magic in check, and you and I would've had our pick of the ladies, wiled away our evenings in the taverns, and eventually we'd have taken our lot and left. Adventures and battles to be had, the Hawke brothers and the world."

"You were never this cheerful when you were alive," Hawke teased.

"And you were never as reckless as you are now when I was alive," Carver retorted. "You're dying, you know, because you had to save the bloody girl."

"She was worth saving," Hawke said.

Carver shook his head. "Idiot," he said.

"So that was my bad call? My truly bad one?"

"No."

Hawke frowned. He looked around their environment. "So what is it?"

"You're trusting the wrong people."

"I always did."

"Yes, but that one… he's going to come back to bite you in the ass, brother. He'll betray you all. He wants something from you, that one thing you can't ever give to him, no matter how much you might want to."

"I'm not helping him anymore. I have nothing more to give him."

"You've still got your soul, brother."

"Well, it's a bit dusty now, you know, but—"

Carver suddenly reached out and gripped his older brother's shoulders. "No matter what you are offered, Marekh," he said, "do not walk his path. This was never a battle we should've courted, and it was never a path we should've walked."

He chewed his lower lip, and then said: "There were a thousand things I wanted to tell you when I was alive. I wanted to fight at your side, to prove that I was just as good, even if I couldn't toss bloody fireballs. I wanted to prove to Father, and to you, that I was just as capable." He sighed. "I should have stayed in Kirkwall."

"I needed you."

"You never needed me. You were always the hero of the day, no matter what I did," Carver said sadly. "You wanted me there with you. Brothers do that. They put each other in danger; they play with one another's lives, because it's all they know. Brothers do that."

Hawke blinked, and raised his hands to each side of his brother's head affectionately. "You always wanted the world, Carver," he murmured.

"And you bloody gave it to me, didn't you?" Carver pressed his forehead against Marekh's. "You're walking a path that I can't join you in. That mage, he'll kill you all. He'll destroy you all and you'll never know why."

"He wants a war," Hawke said.

"And he's going to get one," Carver responded. "Do you choose his side, brother?"

Hawke shook his head. "I'd rather choose the side where we all live."

"But we don't all live, Marekh. We _don't_." Carver stared at his brother. "Do not trust him. He might save your life this time, but what of the next time? What happens when someone else comes along and threatens to destroy this city? What then?"

Hawke hugged Carver. "I'm fighting to save it."

"I know," Carver said. "I know you are, but what happens if you can't save yourself? What if you lose yourself to save this damn city? What if you fall down the path you're considering because you know it'll be easier?"

"I won't."

"You already tasted it," Carver reminded him. "When you fought the bloody ox-man. You felt it then. What do you do with it now?"

Hawke shook his head. "You can't fight a war like that."

"_You_ can't."

"No, I can't."

"So if you can't choose the side where everyone lives, what side do you choose?"

Hawke gritted his teeth. "He'll force my hand."

"He'll try. Don't trust him. Don't put your faith in any one person to guide you, Marekh." Carver smiled, and it was filled with grief. "I wish I was there. I'd kick your ass into the next age for being so stupid. Thinking you could end a conflict by dying for it. You stupid, stupid mage."

"I know." Hawke tightened his grip on his brother. "Bloody hell, I miss you," he said again.

"I miss you more than you know." Carver pulled away, his hands still on Hawke's shoulders. "Don't forget about me, huh?"

"How could anyone forget his pain in the ass little brother?"

"Only the ones who never got kicked enough."

"That's my brother," Hawke grinned. "A joke for every occasion."

"We could've ruled the world," Carver said. "Jesters of the land, with fireballs and blades in hand. Imagine the trouble we could've gotten into."

Hawke laughed, and felt tears streaking down his face. "I'm glad it's you," he said. "Kicking my ass back from the dead."

"You're not dead yet, brother. Trust me, when your time comes, I'll be here, waiting for you. We can slaughter these 'spawn to the ends of the earth and back again. What do you say?"

"Only if you promise to buy the first round."

"I think I could manage," Carver said, returning the grin, but tears clouded his own eyes. "Now wake up, brother, and stop being so stupid. Make your choices, and make them count."

"Promise to kick my ass if I stumble."

"You'll only stumble _because_ I've kicked you in the ass," Carver replied. He seemed to flicker in front of Hawke's eyes. "Good-bye, brother. Don't keep me waiting for too many years, will you? Might get a bit lonely down here."

Hawke's grin faltered. "Carver?"

"I'll see you," Carver said.

"Where are you—" Hawke gasped suddenly, his hand dropping to his chest. "What's happening…?"

Carver waved his hand. "Say hello to Varric for me, will you? Tell me he owes me a few good toasts. Make sure they count. Tell him I'll be waiting for him, too."

"Wait, Carver!"

"Take care, brother. I miss you."

Hawke took a step forward, and then felt a fire in his chest, clustered around his heart. He raised his hands in front of his face, and saw a blue spark of flame in the palm of his hand. He stared at it, and then nodded. "Fine," he said quietly. "If it's not done yet, it's not done. I'm waking up." He looked at the darkness. "I'll see you when I see you, Carver," he called. "Whole world's waiting for us, you know. It's ours to take."

He thought he heard his brother's laughter.

Then the fire erupted around his heart, and he faded away.


	8. Chapter 8

Anders stepped away from the bedroom. His legs gave out halfway across the upper floor, and he struggled to a chair. Merrill offered him a hand, but he waved it away. She shrugged, and then quietly inquired about Hawke.

"I did what I could," Anders said dully. He leaned back in the chair, weary. Healing took a toll on his body, and even if he didn't want to admit it, he didn't want to see Hawke dead. He wanted an ally, but not a dead one.

"So he'll survive?" Merrill asked.

"Yes."

"That's good news," Merrill said.

"I suppose it is."

She frowned at him, but said nothing.

"What?" he finally said after several minutes of silence.

"You're very angry," the elf told him. "It's blinding you."

"He's alive," Anders said. "What does it matter who's blind?"

She shook her head and walked down the stairs, out of his presence.

Wearily, Anders looked toward the bedroom door. He slowly got out of his chair, and walked heavily into the room. He lingered above the bed, and jumped when Hawke's gray eyes opened and stared up at him.

"Hello," Anders said.

Hawke watched him for several moments. He opened his mouth to speak, found that it felt as though raw cloth fibers had been stuffed between his teeth, and settled for the direct, unsettling glare.

"Your shoulder is healed," Anders said confidently. "You've lost enough blood to supply quite a few renegade mages, but I think it's all for the best. Ah, that was supposed to be a joke."

The eyes did not shift from his face.

"I… you shouldn't move for as long as possible. I should go," he added. He rubbed the back of his neck. "For what it's worth," he said, his voice slightly trembling, "I am sorry. I need you to see my side, Hawke. That is all I need from you."

Hawke slowly pressed his left arm against the bed and pushed his body into a sitting position.

"You shouldn't move," Anders scolded.

Hawke looked at him, and Anders saw a hollow place in the other man's eyes, a terrible vacancy that had never been present before. Hawke licked his lips a few times, considered his words carefully, and then said, his voice rough and gritty as the sand on the Coast, "Get out."

Anders pursed his lips, and nodded. "We'll talk another time, then."

"Out," Hawke repeated.

Anders didn't wish to hear the voice any longer. He left the room, descending the stairs two at a time. Merrill was kneeling beside the dog near the front fireplace. She lifted her head. "Where are you going?"

"Home," he responded. "Do not come looking for me, Merrill. I won't be there."

She stared after him. Several moments later, she heard heavy footsteps on the floor above. She looked up, and saw Hawke leaning on the railing. She jumped to her feet, and raced up the stairs, stopping short of hugging him due to the pain tension at the corners of his mouth. "You're awake," she observed.

He nodded, and swallowed, staring down at the door.

"I'll go find Isabela. We were taking watch, you know. I think Fenris is asleep in your library. Varric is out doing his usual thing. Isabela is probably at the bar. Shall I wake Fenris?"

"No," Hawke replied.

Merrill winced at the sound of his voice. She walked into the bedroom and brought him a glass of water. "Here."

He leaned his hip against the railing and grasped the glass in his left hand. He drank slowly. He lowered the glass and looked at Merrill. "How long?" he wanted to know.

"A day and a few hours."

"Feels longer."

Merrill nodded.

Hawke offered an exhausted smile. "Isabela?" he wanted to know. "She's all right?"

"Varric will probably want to tell you the story. All I saw was the aftermath." She shifted on her feet. "I don't think it was a dragon that hit you this time."

He snorted a soft laugh, and grimaced, putting the glass down and clutching his chest. "Feels on fire," he muttered.

"You were badly hurt," she said.

"Dragon?"

"Not a dragon this time," she said again.

He pushed away from the railing. She offered her shoulder and helped him into the bedroom. He sat down in a chair near the fireplace. He exhaled a "Thanks" and she promised to fetch Varric and Isabela immediately. He nodded, and held out his left hand to the fire. He kept his right arm at his side, pain still evident in his face.

Merrill walked down the stairs and peeked her head into the library. Fenris was absently leafing through a book on the library stairs. "Hawke is awake," she told him, and then went off in search of the others. It was a happy occasion, despite all other things.

Fenris nodded to her, his expression reserved. He carefully closed the book in his hand and watched her depart. Bodahn Feddic stood nearby, and looked at him. "You seem troubled," said the old dwarf.

"I'm always troubled," Fenris confirmed. "The past day has not adjusted my mood."

"Master Hawke is alive, yes?"

"I'm going to see for myself."

Bodahn nodded, and approached the dog and the fireplace. The mabari looked at him, and whined softly. The dwarf patted the dog on the head, and then folded his hands across his chest, staring into the flames. He felt, dimly, as though he were reliving those terrible hours following the Archdemon's defeat. He had seen the look on the Hero of Ferelden's face, the poor girl, her eyes horribly vacant, her lips set into a firm line, as if no horror could ever shift her attention from what she had seen atop Fort Drakon. Bodahn had only asked her once the cause of her distress, and the soft voice has responded, "A good man died."

Bodahn glanced at the staircase. _Ah, Thérèse,_ he thought sadly. _This man is alive, another good man. Mistress Leandra rests in peace, and, mercifully, her son lives, having faced his own Fort Drakon. Wherever you may be, Thérèse, I do hope you are well._

He heard Sandal approach. "Sickness?" the boy asked.

"No, son. It sounds as though Master Hawke is awake." Bodahn smiled for his son's sake. "Isn't that marvelous news?"

"Enchantment," the boy said.

"Indeed," Bodahn replied, agreeing that it was quite the good thing.


	9. Chapter 9

Anders sat numbly in a cavern far outside of Kirkwall. He did not wish to be within the city walls. He did not wish to admit that his anger was pushing him farther and farther outside of the path. He wanted to secure victory, he wanted freedom, he wanted so much…

"_**There is work to do."**_

"Oh, please, not now," Anders whimpered. He pressed his hands against his face. It did not help. The spirit manifested itself partially in front of him, a blue haze that made him feel as though he might never stand again. He felt horribly weak.

The spirit spoke: "_**You brought us to this point. We must continue."**_

"The bloody city's still burning. Hawke's alive, that's all they care about. I did my part in it, but who bloody cares?"

The spirit seemed to sniff with disapproval. "_**Five years, and what progress do we show the world? We should have remained in Amaranthine."**_

Anders shuddered. "No! No, that would have been the worst idea. Forget what the seneschal would have done; think of Howe! He'd have us strung up the first moment we… I… damn it, Justice. I can hardly think for myself, let alone the _both_ of us."

"_**Howe,"**_ rumbled the spirit. "_**An honorable man; unpredictable, but honorable. He did not fear you, or the Commander."**_ The spirit appeared to pace in a slow, deliberate circle. "_**What would she say, were she to see you now?"**_

Anders closed his eyes tightly. He could remember a conversation, vividly, on one of those late nights, when the darkspawn seemed a distant threat, before everything had gone to hell, when the world appeared at peace, and the stars winked high above, sparkling gently over Vigil's Keep. He recalled finding Thérèse Amell, Warden Commander and Hero of Ferelden, and fellow mage, perched atop one of the Vigil's high towers, watching the world go by, her face expressionless, her eyes sorrowful and weary, as though she had a great chasm in her soul, and nothing could fill the void…

* * *

"_Lovely night, don't you think?" he asked, plopping himself beside her. "I stole some brandy from the dwarf. Maker, but he snores like an Archdemon. Drink?"_

_The Commander arched an eyebrow at him, her casually silent look of disapproval._

"_Oh don't look at me like that," Anders said. "Seriously, though, I stole some brandy. Want a drink? I'm dying for one."_

"_You go on and have one for me, won't you?"_

"_You never laugh, Thérèse. It's not healthy."_

"_There's not much to laugh about."_

_He frowned, and retrieved the flask from his robes. He delicately removed the cap and took a drink. He offered it to her. She waved his hand away._

"_You know," he said, toying with the flask, "I've been thinking. You and Howe, you're good friends, aren't you?"_

"_We're allies and friends, yes."_

"_So, if you left this all behind, he'd follow you right on out?"_

_She gave him an odd look. "What's Oghren been telling you?"_

"_That you had some fancy boy back in Ferelden, but he didn't really tell me anything else. He mentioned you were something of a heartbreaker." He winked at her. "So tell me, how many templar boys did you have wilting in their skirts when you walked by, eh?"_

_She stood up, and walked to the top of the tower's edge._

"_Uh, Thérèse, that's a bit high, you know."_

_She leaned on the edge, looking out at the countryside._

_Anders sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. He stood up and joined her. "I highly doubt I had them wilting, you know. Mad as hell, yes, but not wilting. Probably still curse my name. 'Damn it, he got away again! Quick, swim! Swim after him! Oh, oh we templars don't float. Swim, you fools, swim!'" He laughed._

_She didn't._

"_Nothing?" he said, borderline exasperated. "Nothing at all? Not even a hint of a smile? Maker's breath, woman, is Howe the _only _person you smile for?"_

"_You remind me of Alistair," she said._

"_Who?"_

"_Alistair. The only other Grey Warden in Ferelden during the war."_

"_I remind you of him, hm?" Anders grinned. "As dashing as I am? As clever? As sharp tongued?" He posed a bit. "How about as well dressed?"_

"_No," she responded._

"_To which one?"_

"_To all of it."_

_He sighed. "So what was so special about your friend anyway? Couldn't have been so great if he's not here with you."_

"_He's dead," she responded, but there was no anger in her voice._

_Anders felt his cheeks flush, and he fumbled with the flask in his hand. "You know, I'm not usually this big of an idiot," he said. "If I'm offending, just say so, and I'll stop talking. I'll leave you alone, even. I can go get Nathaniel, and you two can brood, then hop in the sack and make—"_

"_Shut up," she said sharply._

_He froze._

"_Alistair was my closest friend," she told him. "He was a great man, a truly great one. He left the templar order to become a Grey Warden. After Ostagar, he trained me, helped me forge an army, and then he helped me kill the Archdemon. The darkspawn went scattering because of him. He died a hero, but it didn't matter, because they all know _me _as a the Hero of Ferelden, and he's just another dead soldier." She glared at Anders. "Do not ever assume you know me, Anders. Don't ever think for one minute that you comprehend a single thing about me."_

_After several moments, he said, "I didn't mean to offend your friend's memory."_

_She bowed her head. "I have lost so much," she said dully. "Did you know I went back to the Tower? After the Queen asked what I wanted, I told her that I wanted Irving to govern the mages, not the Chantry. I wanted us to have a chance. When I went back to the Tower, to give him the orders, to tell him that Greagoir and the others were going away, I thought it would make me feel safe, better, that I'd finally see some peace at the end. Alistair was gone, and there was nothing to keep me outside the walls. I thought I could do some good. I was very, very wrong. Things can't change that quickly."_

_Anders leaned on the railing beside her. "What went wrong?"_

"_Greagoir tried to tear up the orders. He couldn't, though, when he saw Anora's seal. He gave me the papers, and then he started lecturing me about what a curse my magic was, and didn't I know what the cost of it was when I first walked out the doors? I told him that wasn't the point. He had no more authority over us; they didn't have to leave the Tower, but they wouldn't watch our every step anymore. They would leave us alone, let us rule ourselves." She shook her head. "He cursed me. Said some truly terrible things to me. Irving heard everything, took the papers, read them, and then politely asked Greagoir to leave. I've never seen a templar so cowed by an old man."_

"_Always hated Greagoir," Anders said. "Pompous, arrogant prig of a man."_

"_Not all templars are bad, Anders."_

"_Are you kidding? They're horrible! They beat you when they find you if you're a man. And if you're a woman, who knows what they do? They scream at you in the Tower, they lecture you when you give them orders from on high, and when they're confronted with someone who knows the rules better than they do, they try to work around it. And, even better, if they can't control you by threats, they make you Tranquil." He scowled. "You ever tried to talk to a Tranquil? It's like looking into a smeary mirror. You see what you could be."_

_Thérèse gave him a pitying look. "Some of us _should _be Tranquil, Anders. Uldred almost destroyed the Tower, and he could have killed many more than he did."_

"_I wasn't part of that," Anders snapped. "Neither were you. Bloody hell, woman, do you honestly think that being a martyr is the way to get people to listen?"_

_She frowned at him. "Explain yourself."_

"_You brood all the bloody time. You and Howe, you're both champions at it! That bloody spirit at least knows how to have a laugh. Or I think he does. It's bizarre. You and Howe, though, you're both so convinced you've suffered so much that it makes your wounds all the more impressive. You figure, if the two of you bleed more, then maybe the world's going to wake up."_

_Her lips curled into a small smile._

"_What's so funny?" he wanted to know._

"_You think you know me," she said._

"_You're unhappy," he argued. "You're broody, you never smile, you won't drink, you lead charge after charge and you don't get tired, and at the day's end, you stand up here and mope about your lot. What's not to know about you? Andraste's knicker weasels, woman, you're the most miserable person I've ever met!"_

_She laughed._

_He scowled. "And what is so bloody funny now?"_

_She arched an eyebrow. "'Knicker weasels'?"_

"_Oh don't start," he retorted. He sighed. "Did anything go _right _when you went back to the Tower?"_

_She gazed out at the landscape. "I saw Cullen."_

"_Cullen. Wait, young chap, curly hair, bit of a shy streak? Ooh! _Cullen. _Yes, I remember." Anders grinned wildly. "We boys noticed when he was mooning over you. I remember him now. What happened to him?"_

"_Uldred happened."_

_His face fell. "Oh."_

"_We talked a bit." She traced her fingers on the tower railing. "He said he forgave me, for not being there. He said he believed if I had been, perhaps more could have been saved. Instead, I was gone, and so were Jowan, and all the others. When I went back, Anders, there was hardly a Tower left to salvage. The damage was long done, and it wasn't just to the building, but to the people inside. Mages and templars… we're back where we started."_

"_See," Anders said, "that's my point. They want to lock us up, and for what? So they can wave their swords, and prance about, and treat us like cattle to be branded when we misbehave?"_

"_Not all templars are like that," she said. "Cullen was a good man, before Uldred happened. If I'd been there…"_

"_If you'd been there, you'd be dead, and so would everyone else," Anders snapped. "You can't hear me, can you? You've got all that grief over men who would never consider you a friend or a hero. I can't understand you at all."_

"_No," she agreed. "You can't."_

"_You think we can all get along, don't you?" he accused. "You think we can just put aside our differences, spread out the picnic blankets, and just coexist? You're crazy."_

_She gave him a distant look. "What do you feel, late at night, collapsed in your bunk, alone and forgotten by the world?" she asked him. "Do you want to curl up and die? Or do you want to sleep so you can wake up in the morning and try to change it?"_

"_I… well, I want to wake up. Who wants to curl up and die? What foolishness is that?"_

"_It's what normal people do," she said. "You and I, however, are not normal. We're mages. When we sleep, we're never asleep. We never leave this world. When I was in the Tower, I used to think, when I'm a senior student, I'll still be able to talk to Cullen. I'll still have friends, even if I'll never have a true family, I'll at least have friends. Jowan and I used to laugh all night long in the students' quarters; we'd laugh, play cards with others, sometimes we'd just stay awake and tell stories. We had a good life, Anders."_

_Anders folded his arms. "If it was so good," he said, "why did you leave?"_

_She stared out at the night. "You're right," she said. "I shouldn't have left. If I'd stayed, I could have saved people. I'd have shown Uldred what a true mage is, what real power is. I would have spared my friend every horror he experienced. Instead, I was not there, people died, and I carry that guilt with me. I saved the country; I saved the world. I lost so many friends."_

"_Is that what keeps you going?" he wanted to know. "All those lost lives?"_

"_Remembering the price I had to pay? Yes." She looked at him, almost sympathetically. "Laugh while you can, Anders, but remember that we're mages. We pay with the lives of others, every time we cast a spell. The Chantry says we're the result of a vengeful god. Who are we to argue?"_

"_We're better than them," he said. "We could be _anything."

_Her eyes remained fixed on his. "Arrogance," she said slowly, "is the first sign that a mage cannot be trusted."_

_He stammered, "I… Thérèse, that's not what I meant. I… what I meant was, we could be anything at all. Anything we wanted. If mages were freed, we could be… we could be kings! Or, you know, queens. We could rule, we could force the world into peace."_

"'_Force'," she echoed._

"_Yes."_

_She shook her head. "This is why you will never understand. I think you know that the templars aren't your enemy."_

"_Bloody hell, you _sympathize _with _them_?"_

_She folded her arms. "I am a mage," she said. "I have touched fire; I can force ice into existence. I can conjure a rainstorm should the desire take me. I can make my skin hard as rock. I can do things that normal people can't. I have power at my fingertips that politicians and kings can only dream of, and it hasn't led me to blood magic. It hasn't led me to evil. It's not that I'm not tempted, but I haven't walked down that path."_

"_So what are you saying?"_

"_I'm a mage," she said flatly. "I'm my own worst enemy."_

_He scowled. "Great. You're a Chantry loyalist."_

"_No," she said. "I'm a Grey Warden. And so are you."_

_He stared at her and then sighed heavily. "Why do I suddenly feel like you didn't do me any favors by conscripting me?"_

_She stepped away from the railing and walked to the tower stairs._

_He rolled his eyes and looked back at the night sky._

"_Anders."_

_He glanced over his shoulder._

"_You ran from the Tower as many times as you could. Perhaps I saw a spark of myself in you when we first met, that fiery desire to be free that all of us feel when we're young."_

"_Oh, women. You think that every wrinkle is a sign that you're old."_

_Her voice was hard. "We aren't young, Anders. We aren't Circle mages anymore, either. We're Grey Wardens."_

_He was bored. "Yes, and…?"_

"_If you ever think of running from this, if you ever think that you can simply walk away and leave this behind, then you will wish the templars had found you first."_

_He listened to her descend the steps, and shivered in the night air._

* * *

"_**Have you an answer?"**_

"To what?" Anders snapped out of his reverie.

"_**What would Thérèse Amell say if she could see you now?"**_

Anders groaned, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers laced behind his head. "She would hate me," he said. "She would hate me for allowing you in. I was angry, yes, but I was also foolish. Thérèse would say that I've no one to blame but myself for what I've become, and she'd be right and wrong. You have twisted me, as much as I've twisted you. We will destroy ourselves."

The spirit made a sound like a dismissive snort.

"Perhaps," Anders mused aloud, "perhaps I _should_ go to the Gallows; I could ask them to make me Tranquil. I could cast you out. I would never feel again, and therefore I could never harm anyone again. I… Hawke might even forgive me. Wouldn't it be better for both of us?" he asked Justice, as if the spirit were a merchant to be bargained with. "Would it not be preferable to this… madness?"

The spirit stared at him, and Anders began to speak, but a silenced scream cut him off as the spirit crashed inside of his mind.

"_**We are ONE,"**_ the spirit thundered. "_**This is no simple child's game, Anders, and I am not simply an audience you can play to when you feel the need. We have reached our accord, you and I; we have made our deals, our bargains, and understood the costs we must pay. You exist at my whim, mage,"**_ Justice added, its voice bubbling with contempt. "_**Do not, for one moment, believe that you are anything without me."**_

Anders slumped where he sat, tears streaming down his face, saliva streaking from his lips. He felt like a madman, trapped within his own mind, wanting to scream at the world around him. With no one to hear him, he was as useless as a mindless animal. He stared at his hands. "I must contain you," he whispered.

"_**There is no solitary existence for you, mage, nor for me,"**_ the spirit said.

"There's only us," Anders murmured.

"_**Alone, neither of us is anything."**_

"You're right, because together we're clearly a pinnacle of righteousness."

"_**We are in the right,"**_ the spirit said firmly, but gently. "_**This is our conviction. I am no demon; you are a willful mage. Together, we can bring peace. We can force it. It is in our power."**_

Anders could almost hear Thérèse's voice, repeating after him: "'_Force.'"_

He considered her long ago warnings. She was far from Kirkwall, far from the Free Marches. She was no threat to him; the Wardens held little to no sway in this country. The truth was, without the Hero of Ferelden, the Grey Wardens had no power at all, certainly not over him.

"_**You have been quiet for some time,"**_ the spirit observed.

"I think," Anders said quietly, "that we _can_ force change." He flexed his fingers, and small flames leapt up from his skin. His eyes shimmered blue. He smiled. "Yes," he said, more firmly. "A change, as they say, is going to come."


	10. Chapter 10

The recovery was painful, but Hawke felt stronger each day. It was not easy, roaming place to place, having people know his name, calling him 'Champion', some whispering rumors of him seizing the Viscount's seat, others suspicious that he might try to remove Meredith from power. He dismissed either thought. The Knight Commander regarded him with a cool distance, and maintained her attention on First Enchanter Orsino and the mages, as if demonstrating for the populace that she did not care if a mage walked free, certainly not one who was so well known. Orsino, for his part, sent Hawke frequent, delicately worded letters. Hawke ignored most of them.

Isabela stopped by the house once or twice in the first few weeks after the siege, and then stopped coming entirely. He waited for her to pop back up, and even spent a few nights at the Hanged Man, watching. She never did reappear. Varric started to work on a new poem to distract Hawke from thoughts about the pirate, and it seemed to do the trick.

As he healed, he tried to keep busy. When Hawke wasn't in the city, he roamed the Wounded Coast with Varric and Merrill, hunting for mercenaries; despite Merrill's initial protests in the matter, they left any mages alone. Let them fend for themselves, Varric explained. Hawke wasn't up for keeping them on leashes, and he did not want to give anyone ammunition. Merrill let the matter be.

Hawke spent most evenings in the Keep with Aveline, catching a late meal with her and Donnic. They discussed every manner of situation in the city, and Hawke agreed to be a kind of temporary guardsman, watching the streets when he could, and passing information between the guard captain and Varric that could not be observed by the public.

Late that summer, Donnic proposed to the Aveline, and Hawke agreed to be the best man at their wedding. Aveline arched an eyebrow at him, and Hawke clarified that of course he would be _her_ best man, as that was truly the only appropriate thing that he could do for her, after the siege, and nearly dying, and all the other madcap schemes he got involved with that ultimately elevated her status, and, after all, brothers in arms, and all that, yes? She gave him a withering look, while Donnic laughed himself to tears.

The wedding was held at the mansion, and Hawke watched with nothing short of pride. He was happy for Aveline, truly grateful that she could find some joy in her life. He joked with Donnic after the wedding, and made a great show of giving Aveline away. She made a gesture as if to hit him, and then kissed his cheek instead, thanking him, a smile on her face that assured Hawke that Aveline Vallen was truly at peace. The newlywed couple departed the following day for Orlais, and a proper honeymoon.

As fall shifted across Kirkwall, Anders stayed out of sight. Hawke did not seek him out, and no one mentioned the mage in his presence. His shoulder burned periodically, but he found another healer in the elven alienage, and while Merrill was not as skilled as Anders at healing, she knew a few tricks that he didn't. By early winter, Hawke's wounds were completely healed, and he felt fully human again.

He started watching the docks, but there was no sign of Isabela. He never inquired of any of the laborers, and stopped looking at the Hanged Man. It was a fool's hope, and so he resumed his adventures with Varric and Merrill, and spent most of his free time with Fenris, the elf proving to be amiable company, and an eager student of the book.

Hawke off handedly asked Fenris one day, nearly a year-and-a-half after the siege, if he knew where Isabela gone, and the elf simply shrugged, suggesting that she'd gone off to have some quiet time to think about her actions. "You're implying that Isabela has a conscience?" Hawke asked.

"I'm suggesting that a bit of gratitude and reflection never harmed anyone," Fenris replied.

"That you're suggesting something _doesn't_ harm someone—"

"I can read Orlesian script now," Fenris reminded him. "Do not tempt me to read poetry to you."

"Sweet Maker," Hawke said, mock-flustered, "next thing I know you'll be dragging me out for fancy dinner parties and proposing to me in public."

"Orlesian script," Fenris repeated. "Varric has taught me some dwarven script as well. He recently taught me two poems, one about a dwarven princess who slaughtered a legion of darkspawn to avenge her elder brother, and another about a dwarf king who couldn't choose a wife from his concubines, and so held trials to determine who among the women was the fairest."

Hawke actually looked horrified.

"Shall I recite?"

"Please don't," Hawke said.

Fenris shrugged. "It is probably for the best. The second one is particularly abominable."

Hawke laughed.

"I haven't heard you laugh like that in months."

"It's been some rough going."

"It has been silent, however."

"That's a mercy," Hawke agreed.

Fenris shelved the few books at his feet. "I am keeping an ear to the ground," he said.

"For Anders?"

"I have heard rumors. It's discomforting." Fenris gently thumbed through a book. "Marekh," he said, and it was a rare occasion that he used Hawke's first name, "if Anders reappears, what do you wish to do?"

Hawke was examining a row of books on Chantry history. His fingers traced over the spines.

"Marekh?"

"… When I figure that out, you'll be the first to know."

Fenris pursed his lips. "I did not mean to pry."

"What? No, no, that's not it. Don't apologize." Hawke looked at the elf. "I don't honestly know what I want to do. A part of me wants to kill him. The other part… I don't know. He caused enough trouble, he did an extraordinarily stupid thing—"

"Several of them," the elf interjected.

"Fair point," Hawke agreed. He sighed. "I don't know. I… if I had my way, I'd turn him over to the Knight Commander, but the thing is, I'm not certain she'd leave me alone if I did. Even if I turned him in, does she have any authority? He's a Grey Warden, despite what he says. Do they have any influence over what happens to their mages?"

Fenris shrugged. "I've met a few Wardens in the past year when I hire onto mercenary bands."

"Any impressions of them?"

"The two I saw near Starkhaven were odd. There was an archer, and a mage. I actually thought they were Chantry priests when I first saw them, to tell you the truth. They seemed more interested in the devastation in Starkhaven than in our group." He shrugged. "They came to the camp during the evening, spoke little to us, traded what they wanted, the mage gave us a runestone to keep our fires burning all night, and then they left." He frowned. "They were very… sad people. They seemed like they were carrying a burden that most people wouldn't understand."

"What do you think troubled them?"

"I suppose the war in Ferelden, much as it troubled your brother."

Hawke nodded. "I know he kept up on the news before the Deep Roads. I only looked into it after the qunari siege. I suppose it never interested me before. Once you've been in a war, though…"

"You tend to find yourself wanting to see how other people have fought their battles."

"You read my mind," Hawke said.

Fenris shrugged. "It's a talent."

"Up for a drink tonight?"

"I could do with one, yes."

"I imagine Varric's holding court," Hawke said as they walked out the front door. "Suppose he's got a story about you, yet?"

"If he does, he's got it all wrong," Fenris said. "He continuously portrays me as a brooding, unpleasant brute in your stories. This is a complete lie, as I am clearly the funny elf of this group."

"We should start a bard show," Hawke said. "I'm the funny human, Varric's the funny dwarf, and you're the funny elf. We would make a great impression. They'd write songs about us."

"I don't imagine it would be very profitable," Fenris said.

"Now that's what you're wrong. I've heard you sing."

The elf's cheeks flushed slightly. "I was quite drunk that night."

"So was I. it didn't stop me."

"Nor Varric." Fenris actually laughed. "Perhaps you were right all those years ago, Hawke. With friends like us…"

"… I'll be earning every enemy I make." Hawke looped his arm over Fenris' shoulder. "What do you say, elf?" he proposed. "A night of drinking, cards, and Varric's poetry is in order."

"So long as you're buying the drinks."

"My good man, I'm the Champion of bloody Kirkwall. I never have to buy my own drinks, and neither do my friends." Hawke grinned. "It's one of the perks, you know."

Fenris chuckled. "You are a paranoid Champion, which is why you always distribute the drinks people buy for us."

"Of course," Hawke said. "If someone's going to make an effort to stab me in the back, I want to look into his eyes first."

* * *

To their surprise, Anders was at the bar, sitting in Varric's rooms, having a casual discussion with the dwarf. Varric raised his glass in greeting. "Hawke! Elf! Wondered if I'd see you two tonight." He gestured. "Look who decided to show his messy little head."

"Good to see you both," Anders said. He smiled faintly.

Hawke ignored him for the moment. He and Fenris sat at the opposite side of the table from Anders, both placing their hands on the table. Anders shrugged, and grasped his mug in his hands. He seemed calm. "So, yes," he said to Varric, "as I was saying, Blackmarsh."

"Who the hell goes to a place with a name like Blackmarsh?" Varric snorted into his beer. "It's like asking for trouble."

"You're not wrong. Adding 'Marsh' to the end of something doesn't make it sound appealing. Pillowmarsh. Kittenmarsh." Anders chuckled. "No, it doesn't work."

Fenris and Hawke looked at one another. The waitress approached the table, and inquired what they wanted. Two beers, Hawke told her, and a bottle of whiskey and four glasses. The waitress wandered away to fetch the drinks.

They spent the next several hours drinking, and swapping stories. Anders seemed to be remarkably peaceful, and the tension was absent from the air. Fenris commented on "You are not acting like yourself," he observed. "You almost seem human."

Anders looked at his glass. "I've had a long time to think," he said, considering each word carefully. "What I've done with Justice is… unnatural. I'm close to a solution, I think." He looked at Hawke, an almost shy look in his eyes. "I know that I have no right to ask any favor of you, but, if I ask for your help in the next few months, would you offer it?"

"I'm not cutting my wrists for you," Hawke said.

Anders glanced at the other mage's hands, and saw the heavy cloth wraps beneath his sleeves. His face had a mild look of disgust. "I wasn't aware you were walking that path," he muttered.

"He isn't," Fenris said sharply.

Varric nodded. "Hawke got a taste of it during that battle with the horn-head," he clarified. "Decided it wasn't for him, but, better safe than bleeding out."

Hawke nodded.

Anders exhaled. "Well, no, the favor won't require that."

"Glad to hear it. Answer will probably be 'no'. I'm telling you that now."

"Well, it won't be for some time," Anders said. "I won't ask until I'm sure." He stood up from the table and dusted off his robes. "Varric, thank you for the drinks. Hawke, Fenris, good to see you both." He turned, paused, and looked back. "The past year-and-a-half, I… I have been doing a great deal of thinking. My actions were foolish, selfish, and wrong. People were hurt because of me, and you," he said to Hawke, "you have every reason to be angry with me. I apologize for any wrongs I've committed against you. Whatever I have done, it has been in an effort to gain your favor, your help." He folded his hands. "If you need me in the future, I will be in my clinic. I don't expect it, but I hope I can earn some of your trust back." He bowed his head shortly, and departed.

Hawke stared after the mage.

Fenris looked at his drink.

Varric drummed his fingers on the table.

They were silent, until the dwarf finally said, "All right. I'm at a complete loss because I have no bloody idea who that man is anymore."

"Did he just apologize?" Fenris muttered.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was trying to seduce me," Hawke grumbled.

Varric made a foul face. "I'd advise against it. I think whatever crazy he's got is catching."

Hawke flicked beer foam at the dwarf. Varric gestured to the whiskey bottle. "Crack that one open, Hawke. Andraste's ass, but I know I need something stronger than beer."

* * *

The months eased on. Summer arrived, and Hawke wandered the docks, enjoying the fresh breeze. Varric walked with him. Hawke's gaze shifted to the ocean.

"Still waiting," Varric said.

Hawke shook his head. "No. She'll come back if she wants to. I don't blame her for anything."

"Aveline blames her; so does Fenris."

"It's been almost two years," Hawke said. "Whatever she's done, let it be forgotten. There are other problems."

"Knight Commander giving you trouble?"

"No more than usual. She sends me letters. So does Orsino. I burn them."

"You read the letters?"

"There's no point." Hawke rested his hands on his hips. "Every bloody day, it's 'mages this' and 'mages that', or 'the templars require a firm ally', and I'm really quite happy just letting the lot of them kill each other." He lifted his left hand, still firmly wrapped in cloth. "It would be easy, you know," he said to Varric. "Easy enough to end this whole charade, and then off I go, into the sunset, or however people do it."

Varric lazily kicked a stone with his foot. It skidded off the docks into the water. "Hawke," he said, "you're brooding. I get enough of that with the elf. Don't start."

"I'm not brooding."

"Says the grumpy mage."

"I'm not grumpy."

"Hawke, you could give Anders a run for his money in the grouch department."

Hawke looked at his friend. "I cannot tell if you're trying to make me angry, or just running your mouth."

"Both, probably," Varric admitted. He sighed. "Hawke, we've been over the whole blood magic thing. Even you said it was a bad idea."

"So why am I still wrapping my wrists?"

"I'm no mage, but I understand temptation," the dwarf said. "Maybe it's what makes us friends."

Hawke nodded. "You're right. Sorry."

"You know how much time we spend apologizing to one another?"

"Too much?"

"Too much."

Hawke snorted a laugh.

Varric folded his arms. "You miss Isabela."

"Don't you?"

"I do." Varric looked Hawke. "She wasn't the keeping kind, Hawke. Maybe it's time to move on."

"Maybe."

"Hanged Man?"

"Not really in the mood for a drink."

"Still, you might as well come. Unless you've got something better to do."

Hawke considered that. "Not really."

"Good. Bianca misses you when you're not there to add spice to my stories."

"Bianca misses me, does she?"

"She does. She says you bring the stories to life."

"Dwarf, if you're flirting with me…"

"Hawke," Varric said, resting his hand over his heart, "when have you ever known me to do anything untoward?"

"The entire six, almost seven, years that I've known you?"

Varric grinned. "I see I'm found out."

"I'm on to you, dwarf," Hawke said, returning the broad grin. "All right, no more brooding, no more moping. I promise."

"Then get rid of those wraps. You think I want to be seen in public with a mage who can't hold it in?"

Hawke shrugged, rolled up his sleeves, and ripped the cloth from his arms. He tossed the wraps into the sea, and flexed his hands, enjoying the sea breeze over his skin. "Better?"

"That's the spirit, you're almost human again," Varric said. "Keep this up, maybe I'll think that smart ass mage I found in the markets all those years ago never went away."

"What? You mean he disappeared? And I missed it all?"

"That right there is what I'm talking about," Varric said. "That mouth is going to get you into trouble one of these days."

"It already got me trouble," Hawke replied. "It got me you."

"Every crazy group of friends needs a charming, handsome dwarf."

"I agree, but you've got this group, so nobody else can have you."

Varric sighed. "It's a terrible burden."

"Shall we take a load off and see if we can't find more trouble?" Hawke gestured, and Varric knew the old spark was back.


	11. Chapter 11

Hawke froze briefly in the Hanged Man's doorway. Varric peered up at him, and then followed the direction of his gaze. Isabela stood at the bar, a bottle and a glass in front of her; casual as the day they'd first met. Hawke shifted on his feet, and Varric finally gave him an elbow to the hip. "If you start playing tongue-tied Fereldan boy," the dwarf whispered fiercely, "I'll tell her you slept with my mother."

"Your mother would never have me," Hawke replied. "Fenris is more her type."

Varric gawked, and his cheeks flushed horribly scarlet. "Go talk to your pirate," he said through gritted teeth, reluctantly accepting defeat. "And if you two aren't screwing each other's brains out within the hour, I'm buying the entire bar a round." He stalked off to his upstairs rooms, and bellowed for a drink on the way. The waitress hurried after him.

Hawke strolled over to the bar. He ordered a whiskey and took up the spot next to Isabela. He said nothing and sipped his drink.

Isabela ignored him.

An hour later, they were still standing at the bar, drinking, but Varric made good on his word, because the waitress shuffled numbly behind the counter and told the bartender the news. Rolling his eyes, the barman began to pour beer and whiskey into several dozen glasses. He placed a fresh bottle on the counter in front of Isabela.

She looked at it oddly, and then glanced at Hawke. She saw the drinks going out. "Did someone lose a bet?" she wanted to know.

"I believe Varric did."

"And I missed it?"

"Not as much as Varric is going to miss that coin."

Isabela offered a faint smile. "Good coin to have, I suppose. Haven't seen that much in awhile."

Hawke did not pry.

Isabela said nothing more.

They remained at the bar for the rest of the night, exchanging few words, and drinking. Sometime in the early morning hours, Hawke woke up in an upstairs room, with Isabela curled up against him. They were both wearing their clothes.

He smiled faintly, settled back, and closed his eyes. He felt, oddly, at peace.

* * *

Isabela woke and sat up, slowly disentangling herself from Hawke's arms. He was on his side, his hair spiked back from his forehead, his slow, even breaths a familiar experience. She looked at his face, studying him. Two years had treated him well; he was slightly thinner, his cheekbones more pronounced, a few fresh scars crossing his cheeks. She could see the peek of faded white skin beneath his shirt at his right shoulder, the mass of scars she knew he had gained for her sake.

His arms reached out and wrapped around her waist.

"Hey!" she protested.

"G'morning," Hawke mumbled into the pillow.

"Sweet thing, you've got your face in the pillow. Again."

"'S'a good pillow," he responded. He gave her a loose hug, turned his head, and cleared his throat. "Good morning," he said again.

"Good morning," she responded.

"Sleep well?"

She was about to make a cheeky remark, and instead said, "You know, I think I did."

"Whiskey, who knew the miracles it could provide?"

She smirked. "Whiskey does other things, too."

"I feel fine," he replied. "Not even a little drunk."

"I think we've slept it off."

"Shame. Could've run it off instead."

She reached out and brushed his hair back.

"Careful," he teased, "I'll start thinking that you're back for good."

"You've got hair in your face," she said. "It's hardly the look for a nobleman."

"Feh, I'm not a nobleman. Ask my mother. She'd tell you."

Isabela said nothing.

"Well, you could always ask," Hawke continued. "Mother would say 'Oh, my son, he has a pirate girl, well, at least he's not rotting in the Gallows. You take the good with the extreme bad.'"

Isabela frowned at him.

"She _would_ say that," Hawke insisted. He looked at Isabela. "Not even a smile?"

"It's been two years. I've been hearing things. You're a Champion, fancy title, that. You get to walk around free, with no worries in your pretty little head. What am I? A liar and a thief, and you nearly died because of me." She shifted, pushing his arms away. "Face it, you and I have absolutely nothing in common anymore. Why would you even come back here?"

Hawke shifted, pushing up on his elbows. "Maybe I missed you," he said. "Maybe I enjoyed someone who wouldn't let me get too big of a head. Maybe I need someone like you around because you're everything that I'd like nothing more than to be. I was waiting for you to come back. Everyone said it was a waste of time."

"We have nothing in common," she repeated.

"You keep selling yourself short," he said. "I need you. You came back for me when you didn't have to. So I got a bit cut up. I survived. Maybe I did that because I figured you'd be there when it was all done."

She chewed her lower lip.

He sat up, and reached out a hand, his fingertips gently tilting her chin. "I won't ask you for anything," he said quietly. "I've never asked you for anything that you wouldn't do on your own. Why would I start now?"

"You don't need to ask," she said, and her fingers looped around his hand. "I suppose I did miss all the trouble we used to get into." She smiled at him, her eyes shining. "And, maybe, I missed you."

"I didn't miss you," he told her. "Never once."

"Not even a little?" she asked.

"Not even one bit."

"Well, maybe I missed Varric more than you," she told him.

"I'm certain you missed Varric more than me," he replied. "Varric has the best toys."

"Varric has a lovely crossbow."

"Varric does have a lovely crossbow," Hawke agreed. "We're all terribly jealous."

"Pity, we'll never have that kind of relationship." She looked at him. "What's that look on your face?"

"What look?"

"Got you," she said. She kissed him, and shoved him down on the bed, tearing at his clothes. He responded in kind. Moments later, she was atop him, and memory and experience took over.

* * *

Fenris glanced in the direction of the locked room across the hall from Varric's rooms. He heard what sounded like a clay pitcher hit the ground and shatter. He arched an eyebrow. "I take it they're getting reacquainted."

"I haven't seen either of them since last night," Varric grumbled. "Bastard cost me a round of drinks for the house because he held out so long."

"I suppose it could be worse," Fenris remarked.

"How so?"

"They could have stumbled into your rooms. We could be subjected to a show."

Varric rolled his eyes and picked up his beer mug. "I think they're hopeless, elf," he said.

"In what way?"

"Lovers are usually predictable," Varric said. "The oldest stories that have lovers are easy; you always know where it's going. They start out in a certain way, they triumph over all odds, and in the end the lovers live happily ever after. These two… damn it, elf, I can't write a story about them. All the details are skewed, there's no two agreements on who went to who first, and I can't, for the life of me, figure out how I'm going to explain his infinite _patience_ with her." He sighed. "They're the stuff epic romances are made of."

"So don't write it," Fenris said.

"What? I should leave this kind of story to the rank amateurs? Bah. I'm a professional. Let them have the silly stories about kings and queens. I'll write about mages and pirates and it'll be remembered. They'll be telling the story in Rivain in three centuries."

Fenris raised his glass. "You're already thinking ahead."

"Damn right I am." He drummed his fingers on the table. He heard a loud clatter of furniture. "If they break all the furniture in that room," he said, "I'll rewrite it as the tale of two gods who fell in love and literally made mountains move."

Fenris chuckled.

* * *

Isabela collapsed on top of Hawke, her sweat-drenched hair splashed out over his chest. He panted softly beneath her. "So you didn't miss me one bit, hmm?" she said.

"Not a bit," he replied, his hands resting on her back. "You've got a new scar here," he commented, his right hand sliding over her ribcage. "Who gave you that one?"

"A nasty slaver in Ferelden."

"You went back there?"

"Just for a few months. It was utterly boring. The queen's all civility and proper behavior, and the people have fallen under her spell. Doesn't stop the bad people from preying on the little people, though." She folded her arms on his chest and rested her on her forearms. Her left hand traced over the massive scar on his right shoulder. Her eyes lost some of their spark. "That's my fault," she said.

"You weren't swinging an enormous sword at me, so you don't get to say that."

"You almost died."

"I didn't though," he told her.

She looked at him. "I've never seen that much blood."

"Not even during one of your raids?"

"Usually my men didn't get their limbs almost severed by horn-headed giants."

"I suppose I'll be great for teaching people to dodge, then, won't I?"

"Dodging's hardly the best tactic," she scolded him. "Not engaging qunari in combat. There's an idea."

"Oh you're no fun," he teased.

She shook her head. "At least that stupid mage got out of his hole long enough to save you."

"I heard you were responsible for that." Hawke smiled. "Thank you."

"He's still a cowardly shit," she told him.

"No arguments. Would you believe that he wants a favor?"

"Did you tell him where he could stick that favor?"

"He said it would be a few months. We'll see how generous I feel then."

Isabela laughed. "So if _I_ asked for a favor," she began.

He arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, nothing too serious," she said.

He pouted.

"Oh, not _that_ kind of serious," she said.

He brightened again.

"You know, the kind of serious that happens if something comes my way that I need help with."

"Isabela, it's me. You can always ask."

She tossed her hair. "Yes, but you could always say 'no.'"

"What would be the point?" Hawke asked. "I don't say 'no' to my friends. Or to people I… am rather fond of."

"'Rather fond of', eh?" she echoed.

"I just said I'm rather fond of you," he said, waving his hands. "There's nothing more to be said on the matter."

"He's just 'rather fond' when it comes to me," she mocked. She sat up, straddling him. He gave her a wry grin. "Well," she said, "I suppose I'm 'rather fond' of you, too. Why else would I have come back?"

"The drinks in the best tavern in the Marches?"

"Oh, that's right, there's incredible rat-flavored whiskey here. I forgot." She shook her head, and then lowered her face an inch from his; their noses touched. "I missed you," she said. "There. I've said it. Happy now?"

"I missed you too," he replied. The he hugged her, pulling her close to him. A small part of him was surprised when she folded her arms around his neck, and returned the embrace. They did not move for a very long time, simply needing that gentle connection. For Isabela, it was the first time she had not wanted to flee a lover's bed in years. For Hawke, it simply felt right, like the only thing he truly needed in his life was Isabela.

* * *

Merrill squealed when she saw Isabela. "I thought you weren't coming back!" the elf said. "I thought you'd run away on us because you were upset, or because you were scared. I'm so glad you're back! You are staying this time, right?"

"For now," Isabela said. At the crushed expression on Merrill's face, she added, "Oh, Kitten, don't worry. I'll stay awhile, I promise."

Merrill looked at Hawke. "There's something different about you," she said.

Hawke looked around. "What? What's different?"

"You're smiling. You've got this grin like you've stolen something you probably shouldn't have touched." Merrill's eyes flicked to Isabela. "Ooh," the elf said, her eyes twinkling. "I get it now. Did you two have a good time?"

"I would say it was fair," Hawke said.

"'Fair'?" Isabela repeated. "'Fair'?"

"Or maybe I'm getting rusty," he backpedaled.

"Men," Isabela told Merrill. "They flirt with you until they get what they want, and then they turn into idiots shortly thereafter."

Merrill looked at Hawke expectantly.

"She's been gone two years," Hawke muttered. "Practice wasn't at the forefront of my mind."

Isabela snorted.

"What? It wasn't."

Merrill looked between them, her brow furrowed. "You two are very strange," she said. "I'm glad you're back, though," she told Isabela. "Maybe Hawke will smile more now."

"I'm always smiling," he retorted.

"No," Merrill corrected, "you were grumpy, a bit out of sorts, and you kept talking about using blo—"

"Merrill, let me stop you right there," Hawke interrupted. "Please. Just stop."

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Was he talking about doing naughty things, Merrill?"

"Ah, I don't know if 'naughty' is the right word. Perhaps… ill-advised?" the elf suggested helpfully. At a reproachful look from Isabela, she caved: "Hawke kept talking about using blood magic, and he kept his wrists wrapped, but I think it's because he missed you and he was worried, and I know he didn't do anything wrong and… and… oh, I'm going to be quiet now."

"Traitor," Hawke muttered.

Isabela draped her arm across Merrill's shoulders and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for watching out for him. He's a troublemaker."

"But he didn't cause any trouble," Merrill protested.

"I know, Kitten, but thank you for watching out."

Merrill smiled. "I'm glad you're back," she said again. "I missed you. Can we play cards some night?"

"Absolutely," Isabela said. "In fact, I think we can do that tomorrow. What do you say?"

"I'd like that." Merrill looked at Hawke. "I'm glad you're feeling better," she said. "You look happy."

Hawke shrugged.

Merrill raised a scolding finger. "I know you're happy," she said. "I can tell." She looked at Isabela. "I'll see you tomorrow. I've got so much to tell you about."

"Me, too, Kitten. I'll see you then."

Merrill strolled away, a slight hop in her step.

"So good to see that some people don't change," Isabela said. She glanced at Hawke. "Were you really thinking about it?" she asked him.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I look terrible in red."

"Hm," she replied. She looped her arm through his and they walked into Lowtown's market stalls. "What did you do, Marekh?"

"Remember when I burned the Arishok?"

"I've tried not to think about it, but, yes, I remember."

"I cut my wrist on one of his horns. Got a hit of what blood mixed to magic can do." He shook his head. "I didn't like it. Still, I'm a mage. Mages are tempted by power. So I took a precaution."

"Sounds like you didn't always make it count," she replied. There was no judgment in her voice.

"A few times," he said. "It's enough to make a spell do more damage."

"But…?"

He smiled faintly at her. "Merrill's right. I lost my head a bit when you left. I suppose a bad decision or two crept in."

She nodded, and then gave him a light punch in the chest. "Don't do it again."

"Ouch. Yes, Captain."

She smiled broadly. "Ooh, I like that. Call me 'Captain' again."

He smirked. "Not a chance, Isabela. You don't have a ship."

"Well, then, find me a rowboat!"

"A rowboat?"

"At least then I'll _have_ a bloody boat."

He laughed.

She surprised him by hugging him. "I'm serious," she told him, "don't do anything stupid that could get you caught."

"Isabela, it's me."

"I know," she replied. "So don't do anything stupid."

He kissed her forehead. "The same goes for you, then."

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"Aveline could arrest you for being you."

"Only on her bad days, sweet thing. Only on her bad days."

* * *

Anders watched them from the shadowy alleyway near Lirene's shop.

"_**You have intentions,"**_ the spirit mumbled. When they were alone, it manifested only as lines along his arms, and a gentle voice in his ears. He was good at blending in and so no one ever paid attention when they conversed in public.

"I have a few ideas," Anders replied.

"_**Will he aid you?"**_

"That's up to him."

"_**And if he has become a blood mage?"**_ the spirit spat the words.

"He hasn't. And even if I know he's used his blood to power some spells, he's made no deals. It's irrelevant."

"_**You believe the whore will remain?"**_

"She's unpredictable."

"_**Then we must move soon."**_

"When I'm sure."

"_**And when will you be sure, Anders?"**_

"It's been three months since I last spoke to him. Give me a few more days, and I will convince him to aid me." Anders looked at his hands. "I know what will push him."

"_**Then I suggest you act quickly,"**_ the spirit said.

"Why?"

"_**I have sensed a mage watching your every move from the darkness, a presence that I cannot identify. We must be cautious, whatever you decide."**_

Anders frowned. "What mage?"

"_**I do not know. It is familiar, but I do not know why."**_ The spirit seemed at a loss for words.

"I need to consult my books," Anders said. "Perhaps we should be moving faster."

"_**I agree. There is not much time."**_

"Before what?"

"_**Imminent disaster,"**_ the spirit said, and then fell silent.

Anders glanced this way and that, and then darted for the nearest exit to Darktown.

* * *

The faint shadows concealed Anders' observers, two humans, a man dressed in dark leathers with a dark blue scarf tied around his belt, and a woman wearing light black armor, blue markings at her shoulders. They both wore dark hoods, hiding their faces.

"So Stroud was right," the man said. He folded his arms, his shoulders relaxed against the weight of the bow at his back.

"I thought only children were this foolish," the woman responded.

"Children know when to hide," the archer replied. "He's got scores to settle."

"So do I," said the woman. Her eyes tracked Anders' movements as he disappeared into the crowd. "I told you, idiot," she murmured. "You don't walk away from this."

"Orders, Commander?"

"Confirm the report," she said. "Take a few days to prepare, then gather a group to follow their path. I'll be waiting for you." She turned, her fingers tapping a gentle rhythm into the palm of her hand, casting a spell that made her nearly invisible to people's perceptions. "Good luck, Nathaniel," she told him as she vanished into the crowd.

A moment later, a shop merchant glanced at the wall where he thought he'd seen two strangers talking. There was no one there. The merchant frowned,


	12. Chapter 12

A week later, Varric stepped into the front room of the mansion, a serious look on his face. "Hawke," he shouted. "Where are you?"

Hawke stepped backward out of the library, a book in his hand. "Did I miss something?"

"You've managed to avoid all that commotion outside?"

Hawke frowned. "What's going on?"

"Orsino and the Knight Commander. How the hell haven't you heard?"

"I've been in the library. Sound doesn't carry well in here."

"Get dressed," Varric said. He sounded nervous. "They're going to kill each other if this keeps up."

Hawke put the book down on a table, and slowly walked up the stairs. He returned several minutes later, dressed in armored trousers and a shirt with light plating at the shoulders. He carried his staff, and slung it over his shoulder. His boots were armored at the toe, and the sharp claws on his right gauntlet shimmered. "Presentable enough?" Hawke wondered aloud.

"You'll knock them out, Hawke. Come on." Varric gestured, and they walked out of the house.

The crowd outside was listening, but it was a tenuous silence, with occasional murmurs and whispers filtering through. First Enchanter Orsino stood atop a bench, preaching to the crowd, his thin hands imploring for their attention. "I know you fear us!" he said, his voice strong. "I know what is said about us. The Knight Commander wishes you to be afraid. She turns this city against us, even as we suffer under her boot. Mages are your mothers, fathers, children, and siblings. We are your families, your friends. Will you stand against us when the Knight Commander would see us all made silent for simply existing?"

Varric grunted beside Hawke. "This will end badly."

"Andraste's ass," Hawke mumbled. "How long has he been at it? She's got eyes everywhere."

"Shit," Varric muttered, tugging on his sleeve. "Here comes trouble."

Hawke glanced and saw Anders, lingering at the back of the crowd. "Bloody hell," Hawke breathed. "Varric. Get him out of here. I'm going to stop Orsino."

"Stop him? Hawke. Hawke! Don't go in there, you stupid—" Varric tried to grab Hawke's belt but the human began gently pushing through the crowd.

A voice stopped him halfway through.

"That is enough!" Knight Commander Meredith's shrill tone stopped the crowd's movements and mutterings.

The templar approached Orsino. "You are outside the Gallows, preaching sedition. Did you believe that you could this without punishment?"

"You may hold the whip, Meredith, but you do not hold my mind. I will say what I wish." The old elf's voice was filled with fierce pride. Hawke almost liked him in that moment.

"You are out of line," Meredith told him.

"As are you!" the First Enchanter exploded. "Your templars hunt us, hound us, watch us at all times. You hold this city in a grip of fear. Step aside and allow the City Guard to do as they are trained. _You _are not the power in this city, Knight Commander. Step aside."

"You dare speak to me—"

"I am not afraid of you," the First Enchanter declared. He stood tall. "And there are others in this city who do not bow to your whims. The Champion of Kirkwall stands among us."

_Oh you slippery bastard,_ Hawke thought, swiftly returning to his previous dislike of Orsino. _You are not involving me._

"Perhaps _he_ has something to say to you," Orsino concluded.

The crowd separated around Hawke. Meredith gave him an expectant look. Orsino smiled at him, but Hawke saw fire in his eyes, saw the rage simmering beneath the surface.

"I'm just here for the show," Hawke said, raising his hands. "Carry on. Public debates are marvelous for the blood. Gets it pumping, you know. Don't mind me."

Orsino's mouth curved into a frown. Meredith watched Hawke suspiciously. "You will stay out of this," she told him.

"As I intend to do," Hawke said. "You two want to kill each other, by all means, have a go. I'll be over here, minding my own business."

Orsino piped up. "Champion. Will you stand with me? Will you remind this woman what her place is?"

"My _place_?" Meredith thundered at the First Enchanter. He took a step back, startled. "You think to tell me what _my_ place is?"

"I don't think it much matters what he or anyone else thinks," Hawke remarked. "You'll do whatever your mad little brain tells you is best."

Meredith stalked toward him. "You are an unleashed mage," she said to him, her voice low and serious. "By all rights, your life belongs to me."

"My life belongs to _me_," Hawke corrected her. "My life is mine. You don't own my mind, and you don't own my soul. Back the hell away from me, templar."

The Knight Commander's eyes narrowed. "You are on borrowed time," she told him. "Your status protects you only so far. If you stand with him—"

"Oh get over your bloody self," Hawke said, and stepped back from her. "I don't care about either of you. Orsino," he barked, "you're crazy. Meredith," he continued, "you're just as crazy, just as wrong as he is. Don't pull me into your little game. I won't play."

"No," said a trembling, angry voice. "No, you won't." Anders stepped forward. "Meredith already controls us, and now she wants us all to suffer for a few sins. You want us all to pay for some wretched crime you've only imagined," he told the Knight Commander. "You would punish us all for some mad scheme that you've invented. You're the real threat. The one we should all—"

Hawke reached out his hand, grabbed the back of Anders' collar, spun him around, and punched him in the face. The other mage fell to the ground, clutching his jaw. Hawke crouched over him. "Stop helping," he snarled softly. "Shut up and stop."

Anders stared at him, and there was a touch of fear in his face. Varric gripped his shoulder and gestured for him to come away. Reluctantly, the mage did.

Hawke stood up and looked at Meredith. She gave him a confused look. Hawke spread his arms. "And see now?" he said. "I'm on nobody's side by my own. If you'd care to try and take me away from my own side, then by all means, have a go."

She sneered at him. "One of these days, Champion."

"Not today, I think." He smiled. "Unless you're really as bad as they all say you are. What's a Knight Commander like on the battlefield I wonder?"

Her lips curled back into an unfriendly smile. He mirrored it, baring his teeth. Meredith stepped back, looking almost impressed. "If you weren't a mage," she spat the word, "you would make for an excellent templar, Champion. You have the spark in you."

"Sod your spark," he responded.

Meredith nodded. "Then we're understood." She looked at Orsino. "And you. Get down from there. You are coming with me and we will discuss, for the final time, whose influence will—"

"All this commotion," said an older woman's voice. The crowd parted, and the Grand Cleric casually entered the courtyard. "May I ask why?"

"Your Grace," Meredith said, "this mage is speaking against the rule of the city. He will be removed."

"Ah, Orsino," the Grand Cleric said sympathetically. "Do you hope to preserve those in your charge through this act?"

The First Enchanter's face flexed with conflicting emotion. "I… no, Your Grace. You must see what—"

"Do _not_ bring Her Grace into this," Meredith shouted at him. "You will come with me, and we will—"

"That is enough, Meredith!"

The Knight Commander and the First Enchanter both faltered. The Grand Cleric never raised her voice.

Grand Cleric Elthina glanced at Hawke, who was watching casually, and then looked at two of Meredith's guards. "Young men, escort the First Enchanter to the Gallows. Gently, if you please."

Meredith sputtered. "Your Grace, I must—"

"I have already said enough, and so have you," Elthina said sharply. "Meredith, return to your offices. There's a good girl. Go on. I've said enough for the time being. We will discuss matters again later, when tempers are cooled. Go back to the Gallows. Go on."

Meredith, humbled, stormed into the crowd.

"I urge you all to return to your homes," Elthina told the gathered citizens. "There is a time and a place. This is neither. Please return to your homes."

Like good Andrastians, they did as they were told.

Elthina exhaled heavily. Hawke gave a few claps of his hands. "That was inspired, Your Grace."

"I suspect you enjoyed that," Elthina told him.

"Apart from throwing those two in cells, you're not getting anywhere with them," he said.

"True enough." Elthina looked at him. "And where do you stand, Master Hawke?"

"On my feet?"

She rewarded him with a faint smile. "I suspect that is a good place to stand."

"I've always thought so." He rocked on his toes. "Good support and all that."

Elthina shook her head. "Still laughing at the world."

"If I can't laugh, it's not worth living," he said. His face grew briefly serious. "Can't you do something about them? I mean, apart from locking them in a room and letting them kill each other. I'm joking, I'm joking," he added at her appalled expression.

"Neither of them will listen," Elthina told him. "Meredith and Orsino are both in the right, and they are both wrong. Who are you and I to tell them otherwise?"

"You do realize that this is going to be my problem soon?"

"It will only be a problem if you find no solution."

"Grand Cleric, you're a lovely woman, but I do hate it when you talk in riddles."

The Grand Cleric folded her hands. "I suggest your eyes remain open, Master Hawke. It is sometimes the obstacle we don't see that blocks our path."

"I'll keep an eye out for invisible boulders," he replied.

She sighed. "Good day, Master Hawke." She walked away.

Hawke folded his arms, and watched her depart. Elthina was wise, and she certainly knew how to play word games. He wondered what her influence could offer to the problems of Meredith and Orsino. He rather liked the idea of locking them in a room together.

Varric approached. "Anybody else feel a shiver?" he wanted to know.

"What? You mean there isn't a dagger in my back?" Hawke replied. "Could have sworn Meredith tried to set me on fire with her mind. Of course, she'd have to be a mage for that. Oh, that would be awkward, wouldn't it?"

Varric laughed nervously.

Anders slapped Hawke. "Must you joke about _everything_?"

"Yes!" Hawke shouted, shoving Anders away. "If you can't laugh, then what's the bloody point?"

Anders clenched his fists. "You keep laughing, and they'll kill us all."

"They've been killing us for a thousand years," Hawke snapped. "What would make them stop now?"

"We can change their minds," Anders protested. "We can do this thing. If you'd stop laughing, if you'd just pull your head out of the sand, if you would just _listen when I talk_, then maybe we'd make progress. Instead, you laugh, and you say that we're invincible. We both know how this ends, Hawke! We know."

Hawke scowled at him. "I don't know," he said. "I've got no bloody clue. I also don't care. It'll end when it ends. If we're lucky, the anger will fade, and they'll behave like rational people. When that happens, I will be the happiest damn mage in this city. Until that time, though, we'll go about our lives, we'll laugh, we'll drink, and we'll be merry, because we could die tomorrow, and I'd rather go out with good memories and a smile on my face. Wouldn't you?"

"I have no good memories," Anders said.

"And there's the miserable bastard I know," Hawke said. He gestured to Varric. "Let's go. I don't have time for this."

"Hawke!" Anders shouted after him.

"You've already said it, Anders. I don't need an encore."

"I need your help!"

Hawke stopped. He slowly turned and looked at Anders.

"Come by my clinic," Anders said, "tonight. I… I need to talk to you. Alone. I can't, I can't trust anyone else."

"Did he just ask you to trust him?" Varric muttered under his breath.

"Shut up, dwarf," Hawke responded. He took a slow step toward Anders. "When?"

"Oh, bad idea," Varric grumbled, and rubbed his forehead.

"After sundown," Anders said. "I'll need some time to explain."

Hawke was silent for several minutes.

"Midnight," Anders said again. "I'll ask for an hour of your time. Two hours at the most. I'll ask you for nothing after that. I swear to you."

"Don't do it," Varric said.

"Midnight," Hawke said. "Fine. Sure. I'll be there."

Anders sighed heavily, but he smiled. "Thank you… Marekh, I mean it, thank you."

Hawke did not react to the use of his name. "Sundown," he repeated.

Anders retreated from the area.

"Oh, I hate you sometimes," Varric grunted.

"Come along, Master Tethras. I need a drink."

"Forget one," Varric said, "I need at least three."

As they descended the stairs into Lowtown, the dwarf spoke again. "You want anybody with you tonight for backup?"

"He said alone."

"Right, and what happened the last time you were alone with him?"

"I remember," Hawke said, and his armored fist clenched. "You think I'd forgotten?"

"No," Varric said, "but when he asks for a favor, it never ends well."

"Nothing he asks me for does." Hawke folded his arms. "Karl made Tranquil, and dying; that girl in the sewers dying. Ser Alrik's mad plan, and it's all his own. All the mages we've come across, even the best intentioned ones, they all turn on us, or he asks me to free them. Anders wants to win this little war, and it's all due to that voice in his head."

Varric nodded. He was silent for a moment, then, "So, how did it feel, going toe to toe with Meredith?"

"I nearly pissed myself."

"That a boy," Varric said, clapping him on the back. "Let's get a drink."

* * *

Varric found himself distracted by a willing audience of lovely young ladies, so Hawke made himself comfortable at the table near Isabela's usual perch. "You've got that look again," Isabela said. "The one that says 'I'm about to do something awful and I really wish someone would hit me until I come back to reality.'"

"I have made no bad decisions today," he said, raising his glass.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "The entire city's talking about your little confrontation with Meredith."

"It was a heated adult conversation. There was nothing confrontational about it."

"Right," Isabela drawled. "You were just defending the helpless little old man."

"If Orsino's helpless then I'm a Chantry priest."

"How does one repent for that?" Isabela wondered aloud.

"Repent for what?"

"If I've been getting serious with a Chantry priest, do I have to repent for that? What does one do in that situation? Diddling sisters is one thing, but… wait… aren't men only priests in Tevinter?" She narrowed her eyes. "Tempted by blood magic, a Chantry priest… I knew it! A Tevinter spy!" She laughed.

Hawke stared at her, one eyebrow arched. "Are you quite finished?"

"I haven't gotten you in bed yet, so no."

"I'm supposed to meet the abomination himself at midnight. If you want to make time."

She wrinkled her nose. "What does he want?"

"That one last favor."

Isabela looked at the ceiling. "If I was the praying sort," she said, "I'd tell you to take a knife with you."

"What does that have to do with prayer?"

"It's a knife in your hand. What's a god got to do with that?"

"Ah. Clever. I see your point." She swatted him upside the head. He grinned. "You walked into that."

"I may have done," she said. She held out her hand. "Well, if we're to get the dirty business over with, so you have a pleasant thought in your mind when you go talk with the stupid abomination, then we'd best get to it."

He took her outstretched hand. A suddenly content look fell over his face. "Or," he said quietly, "I have a better idea. I'll leave the abomination to his madness, and you and I can set sail for wherever we want to go. What do you say to getting as far away from here as we can get?"

"I don't have a boat," she said.

"I'll have to remedy that situation," he said. He kissed her hand. "I should go. With my luck, he'll have killed three templars by the time I get there."

"What? You're just going? Now?"

"Midnight, Isabela. Can't keep abominations waiting. They might try to eat you." He squeezed her fingers. "Won't be long."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"I never do." He gave her a dashing smile and then walked out of the bar.

He didn't hear her soft retort, "Liar." She looked at her drink, and suddenly decided that she was not waiting around for him to return. She got off her chair, strolled past Varric and his audience, and left the building. She saw the top of Hawke's head disappearing down the stairs, heading for Darktown. She followed him.


	13. Chapter 13

Hawke pushed open the clinic door but did not step inside when he saw no lanterns lit within. He kept his hands at his sides, and tried to see through the darkness. "Anders…?" he called, his voice soft. "I know you're here."

He listened, but heard no sounds of breathing, none of the involuntary movements that made clothing shift. He half-closed his eyes, listening for that sometimes faint, rapid pulse that signaled another mage's presence. He felt nothing. He opened his eyes, frowned, and stepped back, into the faint lights of Darktown.

"I'm not here to be toyed with, Anders," he said to the darkness. "I already told you, I'm not cutting my wrists for you, and I'm not playing anybody's game."

He waited for another minute.

"Fine. You had your chance. I'm done."

He turned around.

It suddenly felt like a knife had punched through his chest. He gasped, the air gone from his lungs, his mouth suddenly dry. He felt the knife jerk, and then he was flying back into the darkness, the door closed, and a pair of blue eyes stared at him, before a voice that sounded familiar, and yet like nothing he had ever heard before, started to speak:

"_**I have been patient, mage. I have been so very patient. I have waited seven years for you to recognize what must be done. I have waited, and I have done many things. In my attempts to gain your attention and favor, we have become enemies, when our true opponents linger only a boat ride away. It is no simple thing, to become an enemy. It is more difficult to maintain the animosity, the need for hate, the craving for justice, the lust for… vengeance."**_

He could not see his assailant, but he could sense it. The spirit was powerful, far, far more powerful than it had been. He could see the faint outlines of a massive warrior spirit, a formless mass, with blue streaks of light where its body might stand.

"_**There is one simple thing I need, mage: justice. To burn them all, to see them all writhe and beg for mercy before me, before I grant them the death they all deserve. I have waited for you to understand, for you, because you are the only person who might stand at my side, who might willingly remove the Knight Commander from her position. Bring me her head, mage, and I might forgive you all your faults."**_

"_My_ faults?" Hawke managed to rasp. "Look at you!"

The blue eyes glowed. "_**Your faults protect those around you. Without you, they are weak, insignificant. You are the one who matters, the one who could lead the charge, who could bring justice to the world. I will make you see."**_ A hand reached out and gripped his hair, jerking his head back. "_**When I am done with you, mage,"**_ the spirit promised, "_**I will have you begging me to spare **_**their** _**lives. Your whore will despise you by the time I am through with her."**_

That snapped something deep inside of him. He felt power crackling along his arms, a violent urge to injure the spirit, to snap the man housing him in half, to remind them both of what they were. The sound that emerged from his throat was unfamiliar to him, and for a moment, there was no Hawke. He simply did not exist. He got to his feet, his mind blank save for the rage, the desire to harm, to wound, to inflict untold damage. Fire surged through his body, emerging from his hands and he blasted his enemy away.

Anders' body flew across the clinic, slamming into the wall. Dazed, he shook his head, the spirit temporarily stunned into silence. It was blessedly quiet in his head for the first time in what felt like years. He slowly turned, prepared to speak, but Hawke barreled into him, a forearm pressing against Anders' throat. Horrified, Anders stared at his attacker's face, the gray eyes banished to pure white, the mouth twisted into a wrathful snarl, steam rising from his hands, flames licking his fingertips.

"H-Hawke," Anders whispered. "Hawke, I… I…"

"This is what you want?" Hawke screamed in his face. "You want this? You want help? You want all of this?"

"Hawke! This isn't you. Please, please let me go! This, this is not—"

"It isn't?" The white eyes narrowed. "Who's to say it wasn't going to come to this?"

"Hawke," Anders pleaded. "Hawke, I… I'm sorry, I…"

"**No,"** said the other mage, but the voice was twisted, wrong, thick, with a flat, colorless accent. "**No, you're not sorry. You don't know the meaning of the word."** He snickered. "**It's simple, really. It's almost too simple. Just needed the right moment."**

"Oh, Maker," Anders whispered.

"**Maker?"** inquired not-Hawke. "**There's no Maker for you, abomination. Yes, know what you are. So easy. Oh, it's so easy. Isn't it, flesh? Isn't it just so easy?"**

He stepped back, released Anders, standing in the middle of the room. Anders saw him pull a knife, saw the left hand rise, the blade descend. He screamed, and lashed out with a wall of ice, trying to knock Hawke off balance. It did not work, and the other mage flashed him a wild grin, but it was not Hawke's smile, not his mad, dashing face. This was wrong, it was so wrong, it was… it was…

_What have I done?_ Anders thought, terror bleeding into his veins. _What have I brought out?_

The door to the clinic opened. Someone tossed a lantern inside, where it shattered, the dim candle casting enough light to illuminate Hawke, light enough to startle him out of his intention. Anders tried to rush him, but a smoke bomb went off in his face, thrusting him back, knocking his head into the wall. Dimly, he saw the scene unfold.

Isabela stood in the doorway. Anders saw the look on her face, an expression of simple sorrow. "This is what you want?" she asked Hawke, stepping forward.

The mage's jaw worked, but no sound came out. He seemed frozen to the spot.

"Sweet thing," Isabela said softly, standing in front of him, "it's me. Come away from this. Give me the knife, and come away."

"Isabela!" Anders rasped from the floor, struggling to not lose consciousness. "Isabela, don't! He's—"

"Piss off," she told him. "I don't want to hear a word out of you." She reached out, and gripped Hawke's left wrist. "It's me," she told him again.

Anders heard a low moan, and then the sound of someone collapsing to the ground. The knife skittered away, and he heard violent retching. From his vantage point, he saw Isabela gently help Hawke up. Weakened, the other mage looped his arm over her shoulder, and she led him away.

Realizing that he had no memory of the event until Hawke had turned on him, Anders rolled onto his back, a slow, horrified realization slipping into his mind: Hawke had been prepared to open his veins, to become the very thing that was threatening all of their kind in this city, for some reason that Anders could not remember.

_What have I become?_ he wondered.

The thought of Hawke's near-fall hit him, and he slowly rolled onto his knees, struggling up to his feet. "Justice," he whispered. "Justice, what the bloody hell have you done?"

The spirit did not answer, and Anders had never been so grateful.

* * *

Merrill handed Hawke another glass of water. He drank it, and immediately dropped to his knees, grabbing for the nearby bucket, throwing up for what seemed like the hundredth time. Merrill left him for a moment and walked into the front room of her house. Isabela was pacing. "I think he'll be all right," Merrill said quietly. "I… he isn't a blood mage. I can sense it on him, sense the, what he tried to… Isabela, are you all right?"

"I saw him," Isabela said quietly. "I almost lost him."

"What happened before? Do you know?"

"Anders, I'm sure." Isabela folded her arms. "I want to kill him. I don't even want to turn him in. I want to skin him alive, cut out his heart, and feed it to him while he's still breathing."

Merrill shifted on her feet.

"How is Hawke?"

They heard him getting sick again.

Isabela sighed. "Don't think he has that much in him."

"You always get sick the first time, er, that is, the first time you try blood magic, I mean," Merrill said awkwardly. "I did at first, but, but then I… well, I made a deal. Hawke didn't."

"What sets it off?"

"He and Anders don't like one another," Merrill said. "Demons can sense things like that, extreme hate, aggression. They can sense those emotions, and they feed on them. They're primitive demons, rage spirits, but they can cause great harm. If he got angry enough, if Anders said something that made him lose his concentration even for a moment… You're lucky he didn't hurt you."

"He wouldn't," Isabela said firmly.

There was a firm knock at the front door. Merrill hurried over, and opened the door a crack to peek before she swung it open all the way. Varric entered the room, his mouth creased into a firm line. "I heard we have a sick mage," he said. He looked at Isabela. "Someone saw you dragging him into the alienage and informed me."

"Who?"

"Don't know, some mage I've never seen before."

"Bloody hell. One of Anders' little birds?"

"No, this one didn't seem like the type to tolerate our blue friend."

Isabela scowled. "I don't know what happened, but it nearly got Hawke into serious trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"The kind that gets mages executed on the spot."

Varric nodded soberly. "He's going to be all right?"

"Yes, I think so," Merrill said. "He'll be sick all night, I'm sure, but, well, maybe by the morning…"

"I'm fine," croaked Hawke, stumbling out of the other room. He leaned in the doorway, his skin the color of dry sand, his hair and drenched with sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin, but his eyes were clear and gray. He offered a weak smile to his three friends. "Feels like something tried to walk in uninvited," he said bluntly.

"Do you remember anything?" Varric wanted to know.

"Don't talk to moody abominations," Hawke said, resting his forehead against the doorframe. "It never ends well."

Varric sighed. "Sounds like he's our Hawke."

"You can cut my wrist if you're really not sure," Hawke mumbled.

Merrill saved Isabela the trouble, but instead of swatting Hawke, she poked him in the ribs. "Ouch," grunted the other mage.

"Making jokes about blood magic is probably unwise," Merrill said.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Merrill sighed. "He's fine," she said flatly.

"Thank you," Hawke said.

Merrill brightened a bit. She looked at Isabela. "Do you want me to keep him here, or do you want to take him?"

"I'll take him," Isabela said. "Best he have someone watch him for a night, someone who isn't a mage. No offense, Kitten."

"No," Merrill said, "it's all right. Do feel better," she told Hawke.

"I will," he said, and gave her a faint smile. "I feel a bit better already."

The elf returned the smile. Hawke took Isabela's arm, his legs a bit unsteady, but he walked out of the house with her. Varric glanced after them, then at Merrill, whose face had shifted into an angry expression.

"Daisy…?"

"What did that stupid man do?" Merrill muttered, folding her arms.

"Which one?"

"They're both stupid," she replied. "Hawke almost took the last step. Anders must have pushed him."

"I don't think we'll know until one of them starts talking." Varric sighed. "Things are just getting worse by the day." He looked at Merrill. "Not looking forward to the storm."

She nodded.

"I'm going to find Fenris, before anybody tells him what happened," Varric said. "I don't want him taking any opportunity to kill the idiot in the sewers. Hawke might actually let him do it." He turned to leave.

"Varric."

"Hm?"

"Everything's closing in," she said quietly. "I can feel the tension, I know people are afraid. If we lose Hawke…"

"Hey," Varric said, "hey. That doesn't happen."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because he's a tough bastard. He's been through hell in the past few years. Give him a night to recover, and he'll be fine." The dwarf gave her a reassuring smile.

Merrill did not return it. "You aren't sure, though," she told him.

Varric shrugged. "Daisy, the only thing I'm sure of these days is that we're some of the only not-crazy people in the city. The really crazy people are the ones standing on benches in marketplaces, shouting at the crowds and hoping they get heard."

"And what about your stories? Aren't you doing the same thing?"

"The difference is that my stories are keeping people laughing and feeling alive," Varric said. "If you can't laugh, then you've got bigger problems."

Merrill nodded, and then offered him her shyest smile. "Will you let me know when Hawke is all right?"

"I will." Varric looked around the front room. "You need to eat something, Daisy," he finally told her, pointing to a crate of fruit sitting on a table. "I've already got two mages I'm trying to keep above the water. I don't know if I've got another net."

She walked over to the crate and plucked an apple from the top. She held it in her hands and smiled at him. "I can look after myself," she assured him. "I promise."

He knew that was as much as he was going to get. He headed for the Hanged Man.

* * *

Isabela sat perched on a chair in Hawke's room. He sat on the floor near the fireplace, his back pressed against the warm stones, his head bowed, arms folded on his knees. His skin was still pale, and he appeared to have a small fever, but otherwise he seemed to be himself.

"Going to sit there all night?" he asked her, his voice dull.

"I told you not to do anything stupid," she said. "Do you remember anything?"

"I went to talk to him; next thing I knew, I was talking to Justice instead. It's sort of a blur after that. Next thing I remember is you standing in front of me." He sighed. "I'm toeing the line, aren't I? I hate him so much that I'm close to becoming him."

"You'd better not become him," Isabela said. "I want _you_ in my bed, not some horrid imitation of that coward."

"Ever the practical one."

She shook her head, and stood up from her chair. She sat down in front of him. "I thought I lost you there for a moment," she said. "It was your body, your face, but you weren't here."

He lowered his head, and laced his fingers together on the back of his neck. "I'm—"

"If you apologize to me, Marekh Hawke, I am going to slap you." She reached out her hand and lifted his head, forcing him to look at her. "I came back," she said, "and I came back for you, you stupid man. Do you really think that I came back to this Maker-damned city because I like this little contest Anders is pushing? You think I like watching mages and templars fight? I hate it, but I don't hate you. I came back because of you."

He snorted a soft laugh. "You picked a hell of a time. You couldn't have waited until we'd sorted the trash?"

"I'm serious," she told him.

"You're never serious."

"At this moment, I am." She gripped his head between her hands. "You, of all people, cannot be this stupid. Here I am, trying to tell you something important, and all you can do is make jokes."

"What's the point if you can't laugh?"

She sighed. "Idiot."

"Takes one, Isabela."

She scowled, but it quickly faded. "I've made my share of mistakes, Hawke."

He held out his hands, and she saw the faded scars over his wrists. "Believe me," he said quietly, "I've been there. Do you know what my brother would say if he was here now? He'd be shouting at me, calling me every horrible thing he could, and he'd be right. I took a step, Isabela, and it was one that I should never have taken. I crossed that line… if I cross it again, I don't think I'll come back."

"Don't say that," she said, and crowded him, hugging him, pressing his head against her chest, running her fingers through his hair, and gently tugging at the strands. "Don't say things like that, please. You've got people who care about you. Don't turn into that stupid abomination."

"I've got you, don't I?" he murmured.

She was startled, but she hugged him tighter. "Yes," she said, "yes, you've got me."

"Promise me something," he said, his voice even and serious. "If I cross the line, promise you'll bring me back. Even if you have to kill me, I—"

"No," she said firmly. "Stop talking. Stop it."

"Isabela, I'm asking you."

"And I'm ignoring your stupid, selfish question," she said.

He laughed softly. "Selfish… yes, I suppose we both know something about that, don't we?"

"I ran away," she told him. "So, yes, I know about being selfish. It's why I can't stand it when you are."

"I'm close to losing who I am." His arms snaked out and he wrapped them around her waist. "Don't let me turn into him. Don't let me become that."

"The only person who can keep you truly grounded is you, Hawke, you know that."

"Doesn't hurt to have a hand when I need one, though," he said.

She closed her eyes and kissed the top of his head. "Sweet thing," she whispered, "the only reason I'm still here is because of you. If you cross your line, then I have no reason to remain."

He lifted his head. "Don't go."

"Then _you_ don't go," she snapped. "We're spending our lives living this war that isn't even a war, that isn't our fight, when we could be out there living, and laughing. Isn't that what you say? If you can't laugh, then it's not worth it?"

"I do say that," he admitted.

"So laugh for me, sweet thing, and make me believe that you're you. Tell me a joke, make me laugh; make me smile. Make me fall… make me fond of you," she caught herself.

He smiled, but she saw a glimmer in his eyes. "Fond of me, huh?"

"I'm quite fond of you."

"I'll take it," he said, and hugged her tightly. "Catch me every time, won't you, Captain?"

"That's what nets are for, sweet thing, for when you fall from the ropes."

"And how do those nets hold up when two people feel like being adventurous?"

"Find me a boat," she told him, "and I'll show you."

He laughed. "I'll hold you to it."

"I'll keep you here," she said, a smile breaking across her face. "I'm stubborn, and I rather like having you around. Demons aren't nearly as fun as you are."

Hawke grinned at her. "You sure about that?"

"Positively. I hear demons don't have good control when it comes to audiences. I daresay, I'd rather have a human with complete control than some half-wit demon."

"Half-wit, huh?"

"I was talking about the hypothetical demon, not you."

He stood up, pulling her up with him. He held her hands tightly. "Stay with me tonight?"

"There's a few hours until dawn," she said. "I think I can manage." She winked at him. "What are you thinking?"

He gave her an exhausted look. "I suppose I'd just like it if you stayed. Don't care where it goes from there."

She nodded. "I can stay."

* * *

Two hours later, he woke up screaming. She gripped his shoulders, battling his flailing arms, until he wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a crushing hug, pressing his face against her shoulder. He began to sob, and she returned the embrace, holding him as tightly as she could. She heard him curse, babbling about past sins, past wrongs, all the horrors of the past seven years. He shook against her.

"Marekh," she murmured, running her hands through his hair as he shuddered. "It's just me. Just us. No one can touch us here. We're safe."

He suddenly collapsed against her, a choked sob exiting his throat, before he managed to regain his self-composure. His head rested in her lap, his vacant expression staring at the door. Isabela stroked his hair, and repeated, "We're safe" until they both drifted off to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Hawke didn't leave the mansion for three days. Varric tried to talk to him, but Hawke had no interest. He remained in the library, scanning assorted books, leaving them in neat piles around the room. Bodahn Feddic _tsk_ed at the mess, but decided it was best not to interfere with Hawke's moods. He grew concerned when Sandal informed him that "Sleep is not happening", and realized that Hawke had not slept since Isabela's departure three days prior.

It was early evening on the third day when the dwarf opened the front door and found Anders standing outside. "Good evening," Anders said politely. "I need to speak with Hawke."

Bodahn considered the request, then said, "Messere, no offense is intended, but Master Hawke is not likely to appreciate your company."

"I understand that. I simply need a few minutes of his time."

Bodahn frowned. "Sir, I'm not certain that—"

"A few minutes," Anders repeated. "That is all I'm asking. Once I'm done, I will be done. I will not darken this door again."

The dwarf sighed. "Very well." He gestured Anders inside. "Master Hawke is in the library."

"Thank you," Anders said. He walked inside the library, and found Hawke standing against the wall on the upper level, his eyes scanning the text of an old book. Anders opened his mouth, but Hawke held up a hand, silencing him.

"Make it fast."

"Yes, well, I—"

"Fast, Anders. That doesn't mean stammer your way through it. Tell me what you want and then get out."

Anders nodded. "I've been doing some research, and I wanted you to know that I've learned something." He took a deep breath. "What I did with Justice was wrong, it was unnatural. I see this now. I think I have a way to remedy it."

Hawke lifted his head, his face expressionless.

"I wanted to tell you," Anders said. "That was why I asked you to my clinic a few nights ago. I… whatever happened, I did not intend for it. I will take the blame, but I wanted to speak with you, to tell you what I've learned."

"I'm listening," Hawke said, his eyes returning to his book.

Anders cleared his throat. "I've been studying some Tevinter scholars, and they appear to have a way to separate possessed mages from demons, without causing harm to either. Don't look at me like that, he was my friend long before I knew you, and I don't wish to see him harmed any longer by my actions. This potion is complex, and it's taken me several days to perfect, however, I find myself lacking some of the ingredients. If you could help me acquire them, then I swear to you, Hawke, I will never ask you for anything, ever again. Once this is done, one we're… once _I_ am myself again, without this second voice in my head, I swear to you, whatever you ask of me, you may have it."

Hawke looked at him.

"I swear to you, Hawke," Anders repeated. "Whatever you ask of me."

"And if I asked you to leave me alone? To never approach me for favors again? If I asked only for you to come with me when I need a healer, and at all other times that you just leave me alone?"

"Yes," Anders agreed. "Anything you want."

Hawke closed his book. "What do you need?" he wanted to know.

"Two ingredients, sela petrae and drakestone. The latter I can find in the Bone Pit. The former… is a bit harder to come by."

"Where?" Hawke wanted to know.

"The sewers. Specifically, the waste pits."

"I think I hate you," Hawke said.

"Yes," Anders said, rubbing the back of his neck, "well, I rather hoped the book was joking when it said sela petrae, but, as it turns out, no. Waste pits in sewers."

"I definitely hate you," Hawke said, but he didn't sound angry when he said it.

Anders smiled faintly. "I didn't just come here to ask you for help. I also wanted to see how you were feeling. The other night, things got out of hand."

"I'm still me," Hawke said. "That's all you're allowed to ask."

"I understand."

The other mage rotated his shoulders. "We'll go tomorrow," he said. "I promise you nothing."

"Of course."

"And I'm holding you to your word that this is the last thing."

Anders nodded. "I will not ask you for anything else."

"Good. Now go away. I have more reading to do." Hawke picked up another book, and dismissed Anders from his mind.

Anders wanted to thank Hawke, but he knew that that might sever the fragile threads of the temporary ally he'd secured. Instead of saying anything, he walked down the stairs, and reached into his satchel, dropping a sheaf of papers neatly tied with twine on the desk. He bade Bodahn and Sandal a good night, and left for Darktown. He felt a bit lighter in his step, somehow, at ease, as though he had broken down a particularly forbidding wall.

* * *

Isabela had her arms crossed skeptically, Fenris stood beside her, a scowl darkening his features, while Varric sat at his long table, quietly listening as Anders explained what he needed. "Sela petrae and drakestone. Those are the last ingredients. Once this is done, I hope that I can prove to you all that I… I have made some mistakes, but I wish to remedy them." He looked at Hawke, who stood near the doorway. "I owe you many apologies," he said to Hawke. "I want to show you that I'm on your side."

Hawke rolled his eyes. "Spare me," he muttered. To Fenris, he said, "I want you to come with us, same goes for Varric. Since we're hitting the Bone Pit, we'll need to be as alert as possible."

"What about me?" Isabela wanted to know.

"You'll come with us under the city."

"You certainly know how to show a girl a good time," she said. "Really. Do I have to be alone here?"

"Merrill's at her house if you need company."

"That's not the same as you," she argued. She shook her head. "When you have time, I'll talk to you. Until then, you've got the blue bastard here to care about."

Anders frowned. "That's hardly called for."

"Stop," Hawke said sharply. "The decision's made. Let's get to the task and be done."

"Agreed," Varric said, strapping his crossbow to his back. "Elf, Blondie, you two out the door first. Elf, don't kill him. Blondie, don't talk to Fenris." He followed them out of the bar.

Hawke looked to Isabela. "You're nervous."

"So are you," she said. "When did you last sleep?"

"Three, four days ago. I don't know."

She sighed. "Castillon's in town."

"Here I was hoping I'd never hear that name again."

"That's both of us."

"What do you need?"

"I don't know yet," she said. "I hear his associate, Velasco, is in town, spending his nights at the brothel. When you finish this potion business, I might need your help."

"I'll try to be quick," he said. He reached out his hand, but hesitated before he touched her face. "Am I making another mistake?"

"Damn it, Hawke, if you start to second-guess yourself every time you go around that damned idiot, maybe you should leave him behind, take me with you, and gather the supplies without him."

He smiled. "You always have the best ideas." He crooked his fingers. "Coming?"

"Wait. What?"

"I'm willing to leave the bastard behind while I gather his precious supplies. I'd rather have good company that I trust." He gestured. "Come along, Isabela. It'll be an adventure."

She grinned. "Dragging a girl into damp caves and rank sewers. You are a true romantic, did you know that?"

"I'm told that's the best way to a pirate's heart."

"This pirate has her standards, you know," she said.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh shut up and lead on," she griped. She drew one of her daggers and checked the edge. "There. I'm ready. Are we going?"

* * *

Anders was unhappy to be left behind. "But, this is for me. You're doing this for me. It's dangerous, and, and that hardly makes it fair for you to leave me behind!"

Hawke glared at him. "We're going. You're staying put, here, in the Chantry courtyard, where you can't possibly get into any trouble. We'll be back by nightfall with what you need."

"But… but…"

"Not another word," Hawke said. He waved his hand to Isabela, Fenris, and Varric. "Let's go, before he tries something stupid."

"Well, if you're not going to take me with you," Anders grumbled, "at least remember what I need: five pieces of drakestone, five pieces of sela petrae. Can you remember that?"

"I'm sleep-deprived," Hawke said, "not stupid. The sewers are first, people. Let's go."

They left the courtyard, leaving Anders fuming. He kicked a stone in his path, a childish act, but it made him feel slightly better.

"Ah, excuse me."

He turned around and faced a pretty young woman, dressed in dark blue clothes, her hair tied back in an elaborate knot. "I'm sorry to bother you," she said, her accent Fereldan, "but I think I know you."

He frowned at her. "That's unlikely."

"My name is Delilah Howe. You are a Grey Warden at Vigil's Keep, aren't you? you serve with my brother, Nathaniel."

"I… haven't been a Grey Warden in several years," he told her truthfully. "I have not seen Nathaniel in a very long time. How is he?"

"I don't know," she replied miserably. "I've been staying in Kirkwall for the past few months; I heard he was in the Free Marches. He sent me a message, saying he was going into the Deep Roads. He was following the trail of someone named Hawke. Do you know this person?"

"Yes," Anders said. "Hawke is a… friend of mine, I suppose."

She frowned at him. "You 'suppose'?"

"Ah, we argue a great deal, but that's what friends do, isn't it? Now, what's the trouble with Nathaniel?"

"He left almost two weeks ago. I haven't heard anything since then. There were runners with them, to bring messages back. When the messages stopped, I tried to speak to Thérèse, but she was—"

"Thérèse?" Anders echoed, his voice suddenly hollow. "She is here?"

"Well, she was with Nathaniel. They travel together. I tried to talk to her, but I could not find her. I know she's in the city, but—"

"where?" Anders demanded. "Where is she?" He looked around. "is she watching us? Does she know where I am?"

"Maker's breath, I don't know," Delilah Howe said, stepping back from him. "Nathaniel's gone missing. Is your friend Hawke still around the city? I need someone to go after him. I, I have a son, Nathaniel's nephew. I can't tell him that his uncle is dead. It would break his heart. Please, do you know where Hawke is?"

Anders looked at the staircase where the others had disappeared. He chewed on his lips for a moment, before he said, "They'll be back by nightfall. Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Unless I find Thérèse first, yes," she said.

He shuddered.

Delilah gave him a curious look. "Why are you so afraid of her?" she asked suspiciously.

"We… did not part on good terms," he said.

Delilah's expression shifted, curious and suspicious at the same time. "I will be here tomorrow," she said slowly. "If you would bring your friend to me so I can explain the situation, I'd be grateful. Nathaniel would be, as well. I fear that something has happened to him."

"He's a tough one," Anders said. "I'm sure he's fine."

The woman shook her head. "I wish I believed you," she said, and walked away from him.

Anders exhaled heavily when she was gone.

_Thérèse is in Kirkwall. My time is running out._

He suddenly looked around, scanning every corner, every possible place she could be hiding. He saw no sign of her, no flash of dark skin, no brandy-colored eyes watching him, no tangle of dark-red hair. He saw nothing to indicate she was watching him, but he had grown to know her well during his time in Amaranthine. She was no simple mage; she was a Warden, through and through, to her bones and her blood.

He shivered violently.

He knew she was watching him; he could feel her eyes. He did not see her, but he knew she was close.

"_**We must go,"**_ whispered the spirit in his ear. "_**We cannot stay here, Anders. We are at risk."**_

"Hawke told us to stay," Anders hissed.

"_**Our safety is more important. We must hide. Now."**_

"Where?"

"_**Where will your enemies never seek you out? I despise it, but the house of pleasure is the safest place. go. quickly. There is little time to argue."**_

Anders turned and made for the brothel. It was a good a place as any to hide.

* * *

Just as the sun was setting, Hawke and the others stumbled back into the city, clothing torn and stinking of smoke and rotting things. Anders met them, and gave Isabela a sympathetic look. She had a several long gashes in her legs and arms, and they were bound poorly with torn pieces of cloth. Anders could sense weak healing magic on her, and told them all to come to his clinic. "Fixing you all up is expensive," he joked weakly, "but in this case it's on the house."

They followed him, not speaking. Once in the clinic, Anders told Isabela to sit down, while he gave Varric and Fenris quick scans with his eyes, but determined they were, for the most part, fine. The elf had a nasty wound in his back, but it was not serious. Varric's hair appeared to be the only thing out of place. Hawke lingered by the doorway, his arms folded, a dull look on his face.

Anders tended to Isabela, who didn't talk to him. He had to ask her several times to unwrap her wounds, and when she finally did, he told her to lie down, as it would make the process easier. She reluctantly did so, and allowed him to heal her injuries. "What did this?" he wanted to know.

"Dragon," Varric said. "A big one. Did you know that thing was in the Bone Pit, Blondie? Because we sure as hell didn't."

"I thought you'd killed the dragon there years ago," Anders said to Hawke.

"Dragons have baby dragons," Varric said tersely. "Baby dragons grow up. Guess what they grow into? Big, nasty lizards, with sharp pointy teeth and claws, and they breathe _fire_. Do you know what smoke does to my coat?"

Anders ignored him, and returned to Isabela's wounds. She kept a firm gaze on him, and when he was finished healing her, she sat up, and marched out of the clinic without a thank you. He looked to Fenris, who scowled at him. "If you think I'm letting you touch me, you're very mistaken."

"Oh get over yourself," Anders snapped. "Merrill's a blood mage, and Hawke is shit at healing. Sit down and let me fix you. you got hurt helping me, it's the least I—"

"Stop talking before I rip your tongue out," Fenris snarled. He walked out of the room, Varric following him a few moments later. That left Anders alone with Hawke.

"I'm glad to see you're all right," Anders said, meaning each word.

Hawke tossed a pouch at him. "There. Now show me the potion."

Anders faltered.

Hawke scowled. "I'm waiting."

Anders toyed with the pouch's opening. "Ah… there… I mean, that is… ah, shit."

"I'm a bloody idiot," Hawke said. "There's no potion at all."

"No. No, there isn't. I… wanted to see if you would help me."

Hawke glared at him. "Give it back."

"No."

"I don't trust you. whatever you're planning, give me the pouch." He held out his hand. "Anders, I will not tell you again."

"Get me into the Chantry."

Hawke stared. "What?"

"I need to get into the Chantry. Can you help me do that? distract the Grand Cleric, tell her—"

"No," Hawke said. "No, I will not. Why do you need in there? And why the ruse? Walk in there during the daylight. No one will stop you. Leave me out of this." He shook his hands. "I'm done, Anders. Find your own way. I'm through with this. I am done with you and your problems." He turned to the doorway, and stumbled briefly, clutching at his ribs.

"You're hurt."

Hawke turned quickly, his eyes narrowed and glaring. "Don't touch me."

Anders sighed. "All of you, so afraid of me that you'd rather be in pain. Fine. Go suffer. See if I care."

Hawke snarled unintelligible words, and stormed out of the clinic. Anders watched him, but clutched the pouch delicately in his hands.

"_**Where do we stand?"**_ Justice wanted to know.

"On our own two feet," Anders replied. "We are in this together." He smiled faintly. "The morning will bring a different attitude."

"_**Where is your proof?"**_

"Tomorrow is the anniversary of Hawke's mother dying. He'll go to the Chantry. I can get in then. No one will be the wiser." He glanced up at the ceiling. "And how convenient that when he leaves, Delilah Howe will be there. A perfect distraction."

The spirit made a humming sound that echoed approval.

Anders felt rather good about the whole situation.


	15. Chapter 15

"Hold still!" Aveline Vallen barked at Hawke. "Maker's breath, boy, but hold still."

"'Boy'?" Hawke rasped as the City Guard's resident healer wrapped heavy cloth around his cracked ribs. "Since when have you _ever_ call me 'boy'? Agh!" he shouted when the healer tightened the cloth. "Damn it!"

"If you'd remain still," the healer snapped at him, "then this wouldn't hurt so much."

"Hawke, do as she says." Aveline folded her arms. "A dragon, you say?"

"You'd be amazed," he said through gritted teeth. "Nasty teeth, and they pick you up and throw you. The damn thing is dead, now, and you're welcome, by the way."

Aveline snorted. The healer gave the wraps a firm tug. Hawke grimaced. "He's fine," Aveline said, and the healer left the room. The guard captain watched while Hawke carefully tugged a shirt over his head, and then replaced the armored shoulder pauldrons and chestplate that he wore. He buckled them into place, and then stood up straight, a tense expression on his face.

"You're enjoying this," he said to Aveline.

"Immensely," she replied. "I heard about your little one-off with Meredith. I also heard about a minor incident in Darktown involving a blood mage."

He managed to look embarrassed.

"I was about to ask if Anders had finally taken that step, but apparently that wasn't the case."

Hawke sighed. "Scold away."

"No. you're not a child. As it is, you seem fine. For all her faults, Isabela seems good for you in that regard: she keeps you on your feet."

He nodded and latched the clawed gauntlet around his right arm.

Aveline walked over and closed the door. "There's something I need to talk to you about. It's of minor concern."

"What is it?"

"Two Grey Wardens are in the city. They were reported to my office about two weeks ago."

"What? Looking for Anders?"

"I haven't a clue." Aveline leaned against the wall. "Grey Wardens don't go where there aren't darkspawn or monsters to fight. There are plenty of the latter in this city, but none that warrant Warden intervention."

"What do you suppose they're looking for?"

"I don't know, and that bothers me." She shook her head. "A few of my guardsmen ran into these two before they vanished. They aren't violent, but they aren't friendly. Be on the lookout."

"Who am I looking for?"

"A man dressed in black, who wears a blue scarf tied to his belt, and a woman wearing black armor with blue stripes at her shoulders. The man's an archer; I'd wager the woman's a mage."

Hawke frowned. "What makes you say that?"

Aveline paused for a moment. "I try not to think about Ostagar," she said quietly. "Those are brutal memories that I do not want interfering with my current life. However, when one of my guards described the woman, she reminded me of a mage I saw at Ostagar, a Grey Warden. I knew most of them died at the battle, but you remember what that witch said seven years ago."

"The last were beyond our reach," Hawke said. He remembered too well the old witch's chilling entrance and bizarre exit from their lives. "What? You think this mage is one of the survivors?"

"I'm not sure, and that's why I'm concerned. I have no information, no leads. There've been no sightings in the past two weeks, but I can't exactly hold back rumors. Just watch yourself, and, I can't believe I'm saying this, but watch out for that idiot as well. it would be our luck to have the Wardens show up and drag our healer away right when we might need him."

"Something you know that I don't, Aveline?"

"Only rumors," Aveline said, but she did not sound happy. "Rumors that make my blood cold. Just be careful, Hawke. I won't be explaining to your mother's grave how you got yourself killed."

Hawke stopped at the doorway. "You talk to my mother's grave?"

"It makes me feel better," Aveline said. "You should try it sometime."

"It's a grave, Aveline. My mother isn't there."

Aveline smiled sadly. "Really? I always feel like she's there; there's a comfort to that spot, even if it's just earth and stone. Tomorrow's the day, you know."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Thank your healer for me, won't you? I'll try to heal myself up more when I get home."

"Don't burn the house down," Aveline told him. "I've seen you try to heal, and you're terrible at it."

"It's a talent."

"Don't burn the house down," she repeated.

He left the barracks and headed home. Once there, he went to his room, removed his armor, closed the door, and went to work on trying to heal his own ribs. It hurt more each time he tried, but he finally stood against the wall, and concentrated on using the weakest spell he had. He pressed his hand against his ribs, closed his eyes, and focused. The pain was dull, like a weak pulse, and he managed to ride the waves of it as he slowly knitted his bones back together.

When he was done, he collapsed onto the floor, not even making it to the bed, unconsciousness claiming him. He woke many hours later, with the dog sitting protectively over him. "Hullo," Hawke muttered.

The mabari licked his face and whined softly.

"Yes, I know what day it is."

He slowly sat up, feeling pretty good, all things considered. He looked at his hands. "And Aveline says I can't heal anything."

As if to remind him, one of his ribs pulsed with pain.

"All right, so I can't heal everything," he grimaced. "At least I can move now."

He got up, dusted off his clothes, and then wandered to the washroom. He scrubbed at his skin with hot water and soap until he felt raw, and then dressed. He walked out the front door, staff lashed to his back, heading for the Chantry, and an agonizing memory.

* * *

He wandered into the Chantry, and roamed up to the dais, where he could face the feet of the massive statue of Andraste. He picked up an unlit candle, and placed it at the statue's base, before he pointed at it with his finger, and lit it with a twitch.

"Playing with fire, I see," said the Grand Cleric, stepping beside him. "Are you here to pray, Master Hawke, or taunt the templars?"

"It's the anniversary of my mother's death," he replied. "I was hoping for some quiet contemplation, if that sort of thing is still allowed."

Elthina looked at the lit candle. "And what have you learned in the past three years, Master Hawke?"

"The Maker has a terrible sense of humor, my friends are all crazy or stupid, my enemies are foolish and possibly growing in number, and I am slowly losing grip on my self control. Other than that, I'm bloody brilliant, Your Grace. How are you?"

"Tired," she admitted.

He smiled. "So you're human after all."

"Of course." She folded her hands. "We are living in desperate times, Master Hawke."

"And have you chosen a side, Your Grace?"

"I have no side to choose. The Maker will guide us through this, just as he has before. What of you?"

"I'm on my own side."

"Yes, as you said to Meredith." The Grand Cleric nodded approvingly. "I am impressed that you've managed to keep them both at bay, but it won't last. Surely you know that."

"They want me to bend. I'm not interested."

"What of your friends, though, Master Hawke? Will they suffer if you refuse to bend?"

"Something you want to tell me, Your Grace?"

"We cannot simply live for ourselves," she told him. "Andraste died for all. She could not choose those who were most worthy."

"I'm not Andraste," Hawke said. "I have no intention of marching off to war just because a voice in my head says that it's a good idea."

The Grand Cleric offered him a small shrug. "It is not for me to judge."

"Said like someone who judges everyone."

She looked at him. "And what do you suppose I see when I look at you, Master Hawke?"

He studied her face for a moment. "You see someone looking out for his friends without any thought to himself, except for what kind of danger he might pose should he slip and fall."

The Grand Cleric nodded. "You know yourself. That is encouraging."

His voice was firm as he focused on his mother's candle. "I'm on the brink, Grand Cleric. I stand on the edge of a cliff, and all it takes for me is one small step. I'm very close to taking it, but I have people who need me, who I care about, and the only reason I haven't fully broken is because they need me."

"And if you do fall? What then?"

"It's good to have friends," he responded. "Good day, Grand Cleric." He turned and started for the stairs.

"There you are," said Anders, climbing the stairs. "I was looking for you." He turned what Hawke imagined Anders thought was a charming smile on Elthina. "Your Grace. I hope you are well."

Elthina gazed at him, and Hawke felt a shudder crawl up his spine at the startlingly aware tone in her voice when she spoke to Anders. "Your soul is troubled, child. I hope you found a balm for it here."

Anders bowed his head, and then gripped Hawke's wrist. "Come along, Hawke. I've been looking all over for you. best we not talk here."

Once they were outside the Chantry, Hawke ripped his arm away. "Just what the hell was that about?"

"Nothing," Anders insisted. "I was looking for you. In fact, there's an old acquaintance of mine here in the city. She could use some help."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "What are you on about?"

"Come with me."

They walked into the Chantry courtyard, where Anders led Hawke to a woman seated on a bench. "Delilah Howe," Anders introduced them. "This is Marekh Hawke."

The woman stood up and bowed her head in greeting. "Pleasure to meet you, Serah Hawke."

"M'lady," Hawke said. He recognized the formality about her. "You're Fereldan?"

"I am, from Amaranthine."

"What can I do for you?"

"Your friend didn't tell you?" Delilah gave Anders a crushed look. "My brother, Nathaniel, is a Grey Warden, like Anders here. Two weeks ago, he went into the Deep Roads, following the route you took several years back. I've heard nothing from him in many days, and I'm afraid something has happened."

Hawke frowned. "Why would they go into the Deep Roads?"

"I don't know," Delilah said. "Nathaniel didn't tell me why, he was simply told that's where they were going. I've been looking for—"

"Delilah wants us to look for Nathaniel," Anders interrupted her. "I know I've promised to ask for no more favors, but—"

"You're not asking me," Hawke said. "She is." He sighed. "They went into the Deep Roads, Lady Howe?"

"Yes, following your route. I understand that it was quite dangerous when you went."

"My brother died down there," the mage replied matter-of-factly.

"Oh, Maker," Delilah whispered. "Please, serah, please, find Nathaniel. I'm asking you because I've no one else to turn to. The only other person who might help me is out of my reach. You're my last chance. Please."

"Who else could help you?"

Delilah looked miserable. "It doesn't matter; Nathaniel's life does. Please, Serah Hawke. Find him. That's all I ask."

Hawke agreed, though he glared at Anders their entire walk to the Hanged Man. After fetching Varric and Isabela, they began the long trek to the Deep Roads entrance. Hawke felt like he was walking into hell for the second time. Isabela mumbled about small, unpleasant, underground spaces. Varric complained about no fresh air and the tendency he had for bad dreams following these little 'adventures' Hawke liked to have. Anders, remarkably, did not make a single comment.

* * *

"I could have stayed at the tavern," Isabela muttered as she walked beside Hawke. "I could be having a lovely drink, flirting it up with some delicious-looking soldier, but, no, I am here, dancing away my time with you, in a Maker-forsaken tunnel buried deep in the earth. Have I mentioned how much I hate small spaces?"

"At least forty times in the past three days, Rivaini, yes," Varric replied behind her.

"Three days? We've been down here for three bloody days?"

"It took us a week to get down here the first time, and we've actually taken small breaks this time around," Varric informed her. "You weren't there, but it was a nasty way to spend time."

"At least you had good company."

"Oh, that's right, Blondie wasn't there."

Anders grunted a curse at the dwarf.

Hawke sighed. "Could you two be quiet? For one hour, please?"

"Any idea where this friend of yours is, Anders?" Varric wanted to know. "Better yet, describe him to me. I want a good story out of this."

Anders rolled his eyes. "Nathaniel Howe is a very moody archer who likes to kill darkspawn and once made a great effort to kill an old friend of mine, but then decided that she was as broody and miserable as he was, and they struck up a fantastic friendship, and made me bloody miserable for the entire time I was in Amaranthine. There. happy?"

"Grouch," Varric replied.

"I wasn't aware you ever had any friends," Isabela said to Anders.

"Whore," he replied.

"Are we there yet?" Varric interrupted. "I've got a rock in my boot."

In response, the shriek of a genlock echoed in the tunnel ahead of them.

"Ah," Hawke said, "fun has arrived."

"I love your idea of fun," Isabela said, drawing her knives.

Varric loaded his crossbow. "I'm in the mood."

"Oh, Varric, you're making me all warm," the pirate told him.

"Save the eyes for Hawke, Rivaini."

In response, Hawke grabbed Isabel and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Luck," he said, grinning.

"Pirates don't kiss on the cheek for luck," she told him, her eyes twinkling.

"There are darkspawn ahead," Anders grunted, and he sounded like he was in dull pain. "Lots of them." He shuddered. "And a Warden."

"Well, then," Hawke said, hefting his staff in hand. "Shall we investigate?"

"After you," Isabela said.

"Why not you first?"

"Because I need a fine ass to admire as I rush into battle."

"I love you," Hawke said.

Isabela hesitated.

"Got you," he said, and then raced on ahead.

Varric glanced at Isabela. "So when I tell people that he said that…"

"Don't you dare say a word, dwarf, I know where you sleep, and I know who your favorite girl at the brothel is. I'll tell her lies about you." Isabela dashed after Hawke, shouting, "If you run into battle without me, I will tie you to the bed tonight!"

Varric laughed, and followed them.

Anders lingered for a moment, and then wandered after the others. When the full sensation of darkspawn hit his mind, he felt Justice struggling inside of him, thrashing for control. He held it in, gripped his staff, and ran. He dove into the battle, hurling fireballs at the same time as Hawke, watching as Varric and Isabela tore into their opponents. When an arrow whipped by his face, striking one of the darkspawn behind him, Anders turned to see Nathaniel Howe, some fifteen meters ahead of them.

The archer quickly turned his attention to the darkspawn surrounding them, beating them back with his bow, firing arrows when time allowed. At one point, he drew a dagger from his belt, slashing at the creatures.

Hawke closed in on him, shouting for Nathaniel to get down, and he cast a fireball as the archer ducked. The magic-using darkspawn coming up on Nathaniel's blind side erupted in flames, shrieking as it died. Hawke offered Nathaniel a grin, and a quick, "Name's Hawke. Pleased to meet you."

"Fancy a chat when the 'spawn are dead?" Nathaniel grunted, shooting a genlock racing at Hawke.

"Your sister was worried," Hawke said, setting the genlock on fire.

It appeared to be the last, and they all stood around, panting for breath.

"Delilah was worried, eh?" Nathaniel said. He swiped a hand across his forehead. "Nearly two weeks I've been down here. Haven't seen so many darkspawn in quite some time." He looked at Hawke. "Pleasure to meet you as well. I've heard of you."

"Nothing good, I'm sure."

"I don't judge people on their natures, but on their actions," Nathaniel told him. He glanced at the group, and his eyes narrowed. "Anders."

"Nathaniel. Still as grumpy as ever, I see." Anders leaned on his staff. "Came down here alone on a little adventure?"

"I had eight mercenaries with me," Nathaniel responded coldly, "and two Wardens, who are now dead. I could not salvage their bodies." He looked to Hawke. "You travel in curious company."

"What can I say? I can't seem to be rid of him. do you Wardens want him back?" Hawke gestured to Anders. "I'll gladly sell him, if that's what it takes."

"Hawke!" Anders sounded genuinely horrified.

Nathaniel shook his head. "He made a choice," he said. "It's not come due yet."

Anders shifted on his feet. "I… you're still angry."

"I don't have time for anger, Anders."

"How is everyone else? I mean, I don't write letters, I don't know anybody, but—"

"Oghren's alive, Sigrun is gone, and Velanna ran into the woods. I've no idea what became of Justice. You are gone as well." Nathaniel sighed. "We have fallen far. The Orlesians have command in Denerim and in Amaranthine. I have no time for them."

"And you've deserted Amaranthine," Anders said.

The Grey Warden scowled. "The last I saw of you, you were fleeing into the night, which is only fitting, as running is something you do splendidly." Nathaniel started walking. "If you're heading to the surface," he said to Hawke, "I'll accompany you."

"A Warden wouldn't be so bad to have around," Hawke said. "You know when the darkspawn are near?"

"Yes. I can feel them. Anders can as well."

"I'm good at ignoring it," Anders replied.

"Yes, I know. you're good at ignoring many things. Safety, friendships, warnings."

"It's been seven years. people change," Anders snapped.

Nathaniel glanced at Hawke, Isabela, and Varric. "yes," he said, "I can see that. People do change, Anders, you're correct, but you don't."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Is this a conversation you want to have in front of us?" Hawke asked. "If it is, please let me make a fire. I'd love to watch him dress you down, Anders."

"Shut up, Hawke!"

"I'd like to see it too," Isabela said. "Carry on."

Anders scowled at her.

Nathaniel folded his arms. "Seven years, and you've not changed. I hear rumors, of course, but rumors are nothing. As I see it, there's nothing to them. if you wish my aid, I'll give it, but I'll depart at my first opportunity. I have a report to make."

"To who?" Anders wanted to know.

"The Commander."

The mage froze. "I heard she was in Kirkwall."

"She's quite angry with you."

"The Warden Commander of Ferelden?" Hawke clarified.

"The same." Nathaniel looked at Anders. "As it is, I'm glad I can tell her that you're all right, and that the rumors are not true."

"What? What rumors?"

"Second time you've mentioned rumors," Hawke said, stepping closer. "Care to be more specific?"

"This man consorted with a demon, so say the stories," Nathaniel said evenly. "For the past seven years, the people of Kirkwall's under city have relied on a possessed mage to protect them and heal them. this a creature not to be trusted, and yet here he is before me, human as the next man, a Warden, but no different." He smiled faintly. "I'm glad I can tell her that you're still you. Perhaps it will make her forgive you."

Anders trembled.

"Shall we carry on?" Nathaniel asked. He looked to Hawke. "I am eager to return to Kirkwall. It would be good to see my sister."

"Varric, any shortcuts?" Hawke wanted to know.

"Back the way we came. Any other route, and we're deeper in the shit."

"Then back the way we wandered in it is."

Anders folded his arms, shaking.

"Well what's your problem?" Varric wanted to know. "Blondie, it's a few darkspawn. Nothing you haven't faced before."

Isabela wrinkled her nose. "He's about to pop."

"What?"

"Turn blue. Oh, look, there he goes." She sounded bored.

Hawke watched as Anders' eyes erupted into blue pools, twisting in his head; lines of pale blue fire spiraled along his exposed arms, and peeked out from beneath his collar. He stared at Hawke, and the lips curled around words, speaking: "_**The Deep Roads, filled with filth and the spawn of darkness. Such a delightful place."**_ The eyes looked to Nathaniel, who regarded the possessed mage with the cool detachment of one who had seen far too many unusual things to find this situation frightening or unsettling. "_**Nathaniel Howe. I remember you."**_

"Justice," Nathaniel said flatly. "Thérèse will be even angrier now."

"_**If she wishes something of us, let her approach us herself. She will not play the coward to us. we know her."**_

"I only know one coward, and it is not her."

The mage twitched. "_**are you implying that I am a coward?"**_

"You, Justice, perhaps not. Your host, most certainly."

"_**A bargain was made. Deals were forged in battle, in spirit, in flame. I understand the plight of the world better than you do. Suffer your little wounds, Nathaniel Howe, but what kind of man is he that will abandon his country for a sodden marshland?"**_

Nathaniel looked at Hawke. "Tell me, does that ever get annoying?"

"All the bloody time," Hawke replied.

The archer looked at Justice/Anders. "You really did this. I was hoping even you were not this foolish."

"_**You are no mage,"**_ the spirit growled. "_**What would you know of me? what would you know of the deal I am party to?"**_

"I travel in the company of a mage most days of my life," Nathaniel said dryly. "You are no stranger to me than any other." He sighed, and it sounded sad. "Idiot."

"I keep saying that, too," Hawke said.

The spirit made a guttural noise.

"Could you two stop making it angry?" Varric requested.

"Also, I'm cold and I don't like the walls," Isabela added.

"We should start out," Hawke suggested. "Care to travel with us?" he asked Nathaniel.

"I'll go with you a ways, and then find my own way out. I know these tunnels well enough." He looked at Anders. "Idiot," he repeated.

The mage's blue eyes faded to normal. He swallowed hard, and managed to look ashamed. That seemed to make Nathaniel at least somewhat less displeased.

Hawke was tired. He started off for the entrance. Isabela and Varric caught up and walked on either side, leaving Anders and Nathaniel to walk together behind them. The three-day trek back to the surface was nearly silent, apart from the occasional bantering between Isabela and Varric. Hawke never heard Nathaniel Howe and Anders speaking to one another, or if they did, it was never where he could hear.

There was a point where they stopped for a brief, two-hour rest, that Hawke noticed Nathaniel standing idly next to a tunnel entrance. Hawke could not see for certain, but Nathaniel appeared to speak to someone in the shadows. Hawke thought he saw a short figure dart away into the tunnels, and then thought no more on it. The intrigues of Wardens were not for him to know, he thought. He had enough problems.


	16. Chapter 16

Delilah Howe looked positively radiant when she saw her brother, no worse for the wear. "You're alive!" she cried, embracing him.

Nathaniel gave her a gentle hug. "Good to see you, sister."

Delilah looked at Hawke. "Thank you, Serah Hawke. Thank you for finding my brother."

"Glad he's all right," Hawke said.

Anders added, "Yes, glad indeed. Do stay out of trouble this time, Nathaniel?"

Nathaniel looked at Delilah. "Sister, I'll find you later. I'm safe and sound. Where are you staying?"

"There's a small inn just outside of the city. I'll be there."

"I'll find you." He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you soon, Delilah. I promise."

She smiled at him, thanked Hawke again, and left.

Nathaniel turned his attention to Anders, his eyes cold, and Hawke saw a change fall over the Grey Warden's face. He suddenly looked like the walking dead, like a corpse that was fueled only by a cool disgust for the world. Nathaniel drew a short knife from his belt and handed it to Anders. "You don't walk away from this," he said firmly.

Anders pushed the knife back into Nathaniel's hand and then ran from the courtyard.

Nathaniel shook his head. "Idiot, he said quietly. He looked at Hawke. "I suspect that I don't need to tell you to watch yourself around him."

"If he doesn't betray me again, I'll be surprised."

The archer frowned. "You are either very foolish or very clever, Hawke. I'm not sure which."

"Tell me something," Hawke said. "Your Warden Commander. What does she say about him?"

Nathaniel smiled faintly. "We Wardens tend to value our secrets, Master Hawke. What Thérèse Amell has told me will remain with me."

"Well, will you take a message to her?"

"If you insist."

"We're distant cousins," Hawke said. "Tell her I said 'hello, and thanks for killing the Archdemon.'"

Nathaniel nodded. "Be well, Master Hawke."

"Have fun slaughtering darkspawn. Leave a few for my brother, would you?"

The archer frowned. "Wardens leave their families behind, for the most part. I will do my best, though. Who is your brother?"

"Dead, lost in the Deep Roads, but I think his ghost's still down there. just leave him a few of the beasties. It keeps him busy." Hawke smiled, but Nathaniel could see the tension, the grief twisting in his features. The Warden understood it.

"I'll do my best," he replied, and walked into the crowd. He moved so smoothly that it took Hawke a moment to notice he was gone.

"Well," Varric piped up, "that was fun. Can we please never go back to the Deep Roads again?"

"I need a bath," Isabela added. "Do you think I need a bath?"

"Sleep," Hawke remarked.

Varric waved his hand. "You two have a good time. don't do anything I wouldn't do." He left them.

Isabela looked at Hawke. "Sleep?" she wanted to know. "Or sex?"

"I thought you might want to plan your assault on what's-his-name tonight. Velasco?"

"Oh, right. Him. Oh, forget sex, now I'm not in the mood." She pouted. "I suppose we should deal with that. Unless you found me that boat you promised me?"

"Alas, I did not find you a boat."

"Well, balls. I suppose the brothel it is."

"You do know how to show a man a good time."

"It's one of my better qualities."

* * *

"So you do have a plan?" Hawke wanted to know as he warmed his hands over the mansion's main fireplace.

"Well, certainly, step one, we find Velasco, step two, we stop him, and step three, profit. It's quite simple, really."

"It's a wonder your schemes haven't taken over the city yet."

Isabela glared. "Oh shut up. did you have a better idea?"

"If Velasco wants you, why don't you let me give you to him?"

"A set up? Oh, that's clever. Much better than my idea." She giggled. "What would I do without you, Hawke?"

He shrugged. "you'd manage."

"Wouldn't be nearly as much fun, though." She folded an arm around his waist. "You've got that look again," she said.

"I'm not falling for it this time, Isabela."

"No, no. Not _that_ look, the other one, the sort of broody look."

"Oh." He turned a grin on her. "Better?" he asked through his teeth.

"Ugh. No. forget I asked." She sighed. "So, you hand me over, and I'll leave a trail for you to follow."

He arched an eyebrow. "You sound like you're looking forward to this."

"Well, yes, it's revenge that's seven years in the making. Why wouldn't I be looking forward to it?"

"You do have a point there." He stepped away and stretched his arms. "All right. So we do this tonight?"

"There are a few hours of daylight left," she said, "and I _do_ find myself wanting that bath. The Deep Roads are no place for someone like me. I don't like them. they're tight and confining."

Hawke shrugged. "I don't know. it wasn't that bad this time. we all came out alive."

Isabela frowned at him. "Marekh," she said quietly, in a tone that suggested he'd crossed the line.

"I didn't have to kill anyone this time," he added. He looked at the fire, then shook the mood off. "So. We do this set up tonight. What then?"

"Then, we see what happens, I suppose. With luck, Castillon will show his face. Then I can kill him." She sounded gleeful. "Once he's dead, I'm free. Nothing holds me back then."

"Want to sleep first?"

"Not at all," she said. "I'm too excited for sleep." She reached out her hand and gripped his belt. "You could share that bath with me," she said, smiling at him.

He considered that for several moments.

"It's not a trick question," Isabela told him.

"I know," he said, and then scooped her up in his arms, while she shrieked with laughter. "I was just seeing how long it would take to tell myself it was a bad idea. Alas, I find that I'm unable to convince myself of such things."

"I'm a terrible influence on you," she said.

"Darling, if I must suffer bad influences, let them all be as lovely as you."

"Flatterer. You think you're so charming."

"I am the most charming man you know."

She sighed. "You do seem to get under my skin."

"Shall we enjoy these last few hours before we play our little game?"

"By all means," she said. "Make them a few hours to remember."

He kissed her, and carried her to the washroom. The stone and steel lined tub inside was just big enough for the two of them.

* * *

Varric sighed as they entered the brothel. "I feel like you two are leading me bad places," he complained. "You couldn't just find a glove and slap him around?"

"For starters, the duel thing was out, because they don't sell calfskin gloves in the markets," Isabela replied. "And Velasco is a pretentious, proud shit of a man. Drakeskin might work, but the last time I saw a dragon, it slashed me up and tried to eat Hawke. I wasn't exactly thinking of the gloves I could make out of it."

"It did crack my ribs," Hawke added.

"And you think he's going to listen to Hawke?" Varric inquired. "You could just walk in there and say 'Hey! I have this Rivaini pirate tied up somewhere waiting for you. Want to have a go?'"

"Velasco doesn't know Hawke. Why would he trust him?" Isabela replied. "If we're going to pull this off, he has to believe he's got the upper hand."

Varric rubbed his forehead. "Fine, fine. So how do we do this?"

"We hand Isabela over to Velasco. We improvise from there," Hawke said.

"I officially hate this plan," the dwarf said. "The next time you need to make a plan, will you please consult me first? I have far more experience than you do, and my plans generally don't end with horrible slaughter and death."

"Spoilsport," Isabela said. She turned her attention to Hawke as they climbed the stairs and stood outside the largest room in the brothel. "Now you're going to have to sell this. you might have to hit me, call me names. Make him believe you're serious."

Hawke gave her a nervous smile. "You're enjoying this a little too much."

"Oh haven't you ever wanted to slap me?" she asked.

He shrugged.

Varric snorted. "Many times, Rivaini."

"Shut up," Isabela snapped. She hopped on her feet. "Ready?" she asked Hawke.

"Not really." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, I really could just tell him that I've got you tied up somewhere…"

She stood on her toes and kissed him. "Now are you ready?"

"No," he admitted, "but that was a nice try."

She sighed. "Come on. sooner we're done, the better off we are."

Hawke nodded and exhaled. "All right." He walked up to the door and kicked it open. An elf prostitute shrieked and raced out of the room. Hawke glanced at Isabela and then dragged her inside.

A surly looking mercenary greeted them. "I hope you have a good reason for interrupting me," he complained to Hawke.

"I think this'll compensate you," Hawke said, shoving Isabela at the man.

the mercenary stepped aside, letting Isabela fall to the floor. "I see you've brought me filth," the man said. "And where did you find it?"

"What?" Isabela sputtered, getting to her feet. "This wasn't the deal!"

Hawke shrugged. "I'm changing the deal. You do it often enough." He looked at the mercenary. "Velasco, I trust?"

"Indeed. And you bring me Isabela. Lovely and wretched, as always." Velasco gripped her arm and buried his nose against her hair. "And, oddly enough, not stinking of a tavern. How marvelous. Castillon will be most grateful for that." He tossed a pouch of coins at Hawke. "And with that, I bid you good evening."

Isabela snapped her teeth at Velasco, but he slapped her across the face, knocking her against the wall. Her head struck hard, and she slumped to the ground. Hawke did his best not to flinch. Velasco reached down and tossed Isabela over his shoulder. "And now, as I said," he said, "good night. I thank you for your assistance."

He carried Isabela down the stairs and out of the building.

Hawke and Fenris hurried after him, but once they got outside Velasco was long gone. "Great," Hawke muttered. "Where now?"

"I sure hope Isabela leaves a good trail," Varric said. He glanced at the ground, where tiny droplets of blood marked the path. "What am I saying? Isabela's never subtle." Varric sighed. "All right, Hawke, let's go save this girl you're so fond of."

"I never said I was fond of her."

"No, not to me you didn't."

Hawke rolled his eyes. "Come on," he said. "Let's see if we can't catch up and cause some more trouble."

"Want to grab some backup? While we're both handsome enough to stop pirates in their tracks, these are not the types of pirates we're used to."

"I think we can handle this."

"I hate your optimism sometimes," Varric sighed. "All right, all right. Lead on."

Hawke looked at the ground. The bloody trail led into Hightown. "Dwarves first."

"You're sweet, Hawke. However, I refuse to be cannon fodder."

Hawke sighed. "Fine. I'll set them on fire, then you can shoot them."

"Much better plan. Onward then."

They followed the trail through Hightown's markets, and into Lowtown. The bloody trail grew a bit more erratic the farther they wandered into the lower city, and when it abruptly curled around the corner into a band of thieves wandering the night streets, Hawke was momentarily distracted. Casting a fireball at the thieves, he ducked as Varric picked them off one by one. One of the thieves remained standing, and Hawke pulled his knife free of his belt and hurled it into the thief's face. The other man dropped.

"Ouch," Varric commented. "You're getting good at that."

Hawke retrieved the knife and wiped the blood off on the dead man's shirt.

"And fastidious," Varric added.

"I like this knife," Hawke said.

"Remind me to buy you a new one when this is over. The tip's broken off on yours."

"Damn it," Hawke muttered, and stashed the broken blade in its sheath. "Come on. Down to the docks it is."

"Great," Varric complained. "My favorite place in the city."

* * *

The trail ended at a warehouse at the far end of the docks. The evening folk were scare, and they eased the door to the warehouse open without much trouble. Creeping along the floor, Varric noticed two traps and told Hawke to stay put while the dwarf dealt with them. traps disarmed, they slowly moved to another door, where they could hear Velasco's voice.

"You will owe me," he was saying to Isabela, who was wrapping a piece of cloth around her hand with a bored expression.

"Don't touch me," she remarked.

"Bitch, I own you now. You will do what I say."

She spat in his face.

Velasco drew a knife. "Let's see how many men follow you when your face is carved to nothing," he threatened her.

She yawned, and waved her hand.

Hawke took that as his cue. Varric hummed a tune under his breath and charged after his friend. Hawke took the stairs two at a time, throwing fireballs ahead of him. Velasco cursed, and tried to get out of the way. Isabela shoved him _in_ the way, and hurried to Hawke's side. "Took you long enough," she told him.

"I'm sorry, I'm killing mercenaries here, what are you doing?"

"Being very grateful," she replied.

"Ah, well, then, by all means, carry on." Hawke ducked to the ground while Isabela hurled a knife at an oncoming mercenary. It thudded into his throat and dropped him.

"Lovely mark," Hawke said.

"I thought so," Isabela agreed.

"Will you two bloody _focus_?" Varric bellowed, running toward them, leading a group of six pirates after him. Velasco darted in between the groups, holding two blades in his hands, and gestured obscenely at Isabela.

"Whore," he snarled, "I have been waiting for so long for you to—"

Hawke rushed forward and punched him, knocking Velasco back, dazed.

Isabela put her hands on her hips. "If you are defending my honor again—"

"I'm doing no such thing," Hawke argued, "but I'm rather sick and tired of people calling you 'whore'. You'd think they could do better."

"Oh? Like what?"

"I don't know, I'm working on that part."

"Focus!" Varric shouted. "Angry pirates coming our way. Rivaini, if we die here, I just want you to know that I hate all your plans, and you still owe me money."

"I do not owe you money!"

"Three sovereigns. You do."

"I don't!"

"Now who's not focusing?" Hawke interrupted. "If you two are quite finished?"

"Wait," Varric snapped, "that's _my_ line."

"Oh shut up, dwarf, and kill some third-rate pirates!" Isabela dashed forward, two blades in her hands, slicing arms and two throats as she did so.

Velasco reached out for her. She sidestepped him, and drove her dagger between his shoulder blades. His eyes went wide briefly, and he collapsed, dead, to the floor. The other mercenaries wobbled on their feet, stunned by Isabela's speed and the distracting, bleeding wounds. She skidded to a stop behind him, ducked to her knees, and shouted, "They're all yours, love!"

Hawke grinned, and set the group of bleeding mercenaries on fire.

Varric winced when the bodies were done burning. "Remind me never to piss you off," he said, and glanced up at Hawke's face, his nose wrinkling.

"What?" Hawke wanted to know.

"Apparently blood mages have a thing for blood even when they're not using."

Hawke pressed the back of his hand against his nose. "Oh. That's an odd feeling."

"And he wins the understatement of the year," Varric muttered. "Just don't resurrect them and we'll be fine."

"I don't think I can do that." Hawke mopped his hand against the blood dribbling down his face. "Ugh. I can taste it. Nasty stuff."

Isabela glanced at him. He shrugged sheepishly. She sighed, and wandered around the warehouse. "Look around," she told Hawke. "I want to know what Castillon's doing here."

"Friendly chat?" Hawke said hopefully.

"Unlikely."

"Then let's have a look."

The three of them walked into an office off the main warehouse floor. Isabela leafed through some manuals, and then found a lockbox. She picked the lock, and lifted out several documents. Her mouth twisted into a frown. "So, Castillon is back to his old slaver tricks. Lovely."

"That's why he's in Kirkwall?" Hawke asked. His nose has stopped bleeding.

"Looks like it. If we turn these into the city guard, then we can stop Castillon, dead," she said.

"Rivaini, for the hundredth time, stop trying to surprise me by being noble," Varric grumbled.

"This isn't nobility. Slavery's one of those few things that I really do not approve of," she argued. "If it gets me in good with Aveline, I suppose I'll take it. Come on. if we're lucky, we can still find her up and about at the Keep."

They walked back into the warehouse, where a finely dressed man waited for them. "Isabela," he said, his accent thick and refined. "I had heard you found my little hiding spot."

Isabela froze. Hawke stood at her side. "Castillon, I presume?"

"And you would be Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. I've heard many things, approximately half of which I'd wager were true." Castillon chuckled. "And you bring Isabela into my path. How lovely to see you again, my dear."

"I see you've been naughty," Isabela responded, and held up the documents in her hand. "Slavery's frowned upon in the Marches. Imagine what it could do your trade if they found out what you've been up to."

Castillon's face faltered. "I am listening," he said.

"I could ruin you," Isabela said. "I could turn these in, and you'd never see the light of day again. Even the Armada would turn on you. imagine, one of their finest men, caught with his pants down, so to speak." She smiled at him. "I could destroy you a thousand ways with this information, Castillon."

"Name your price, Isabela," her former employer said.

She glanced at Hawke. He looked at his hands, then said, "This is your call, Isabela. Do what you want." He stepped back from her, standing beside Varric. The dwarf sighed loudly.

Isabela looked at the documents. "If you're here," she said, "that means you've got a ship. I want it, and its crew. You will explain to them that that ship is now mine, and its crew will report to me. You know what kind of person I am, and you know what kind of havoc I can wreak should the mood take me." She waved the papers in his face. "Give me your ship, and you can go. Should you ever interfere with my life again, I will kill you, and I will make it last."

Castillon reached out his hand to take the documents. Isabela yanked them out of his reach. "Swear it," she said.

"I swear upon my mother's grave," Castillon said. "I'll not trouble you again. You are free, Isabela. As always, you would be an asset to any crew." His hand trembled slightly when she gave him the documents. His eyes shifted to Hawke, and a knowing smile creased the corners of his mouth. "You would prove an admirable companion to any man able to tame you," he added.

Isabela stepped back, her arms folded. "I said if you interfered with my life, Castillon. You have no idea how many people are involved."

The man nodded, a grim look on his face. "Very well, Isabela. It has been a pleasure doing business with you. the ship is docked outside, and it is yours. I leave you to a rich life of business and adventure. May we never meet again, at least outside of friendly circles."

"Go," she said, pointing. "Before I change my mind."

He bowed to her, and left the warehouse.

Isabela sighed heavily. "He's gone." She slowly turned around and looked at Hawke and Varric. "He's gone," she repeated. "And, I've got a ship." Her skin seemed to glow, and her eyes sparkled with joy. "I have a ship," she said again.

"Sounds like you'll have fun," Hawke said.

"I can go wherever I like," she said, more to herself than to them. She paced in a circle. "A ship, a crew, a place that's mine, with no qunari, no guards, nothing to hunt me down. I'm free, don't you understand?"

Varric nodded. "Yeah. I understand. Good luck wherever you're bound, Rivaini. It's been fun." He walked out of the room, and they heard the door slam shut behind him.

Isabela looked at Hawke, who had a somewhat sad look on his face. "It's been fun," he echoed Varric's comment. "Hope you don't stay away too long."

"The ocean's big," she told him. "Very big. I don't know where I'll end up." She shifted on her feet. "It would, you know, be nice to have someone with me. someone who would watch my back, watch out for me, you know, make sure I don't do anything too stupid." She held out her hand to him. "What do you say, Marekh?" she asked him, her voice soft. "What do you say to seeing me at the bough of a ship with my hair flying in the salt air?"

He hesitantly reached out his hand, expecting her to withdraw hers. Instead, she clasped her fingers around his, and drew him close to her. "Come with me," she said. "I've had a lot of adventures, but the best ones are yet to come. It'd be best to have you with me, to have just you, following me to the ends of the earth, to the ends of the seas, just you. Even with a crew, if you're not there, there's nothing. So come with me. I want you, Hawke, to come with me. and I don't ever want you to leave."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't ever leave," she repeated, almost whispering. "I don't want you to leave."

He hugged her, pressing his head against her shoulder. "I could stand to leave this all behind."

"Just drop it all?"

"I'd do it, if it meant you'd stay for a little bit longer."

"this damn city owns you, doesn't it?"

"No," he corrected her, and brushed her hair out of her face. "You own me. You've had me for a long time."

"You were right, you know," she said quietly. "All those years ago, when you said I was afraid of hurting someone else. you're the only person I've ever truly feared hurting. When I see what you've done, what you've almost become, I can't help blaming myself. I pushed you close to the edge."

"But I didn't fall," he told her.

"That's because I won't let you," she said firmly. "I promise, if you cross that line, I'm coming with you, or I'm coming after you. I won't let you become the thing you hate most. I want you, just _you_, Marekh Hawke, to be with me. I want you. I love you. that's all there is. There, I said it. I love you." She laughed softly. "Didn't think that would be so hard."

"I love you too," he replied. He echoed her laugh. "Maker, that _is_ hard to say and mean it."

"So you'll come with me."

"Isabela, I'll follow you wherever the sea takes you." He nuzzled her throat. "Besides, you promised to show me what nets are good for."

She laughed loudly. "Adventurous pirates, only."

"Then let us be adventurous pirates together," he said.

"Oh, you know just what to say to a girl."

He pulled away, and kept his grip on her hand. "Care for a drink? It's on me, Captain."

"Mm. I do love it when you call me that. Say it again."

"You do have a ship now," Hawke said. "Captain Isabela, her first mate, Hawke, and the finest ship in Thedas. Has a good song behind it, doesn't it?"

"Think we can get Varric to write one?"

"I'm sure he could be convinced." Hawke kissed her cheek. "I love you," he said again. "Suppose I'll eventually get used to saying that."

"I think we'll manage," she told him, and they took their time, walking through the nighttime docks to Lowtown, and the brightly lit Hanged Man, where they bough a bottle of the finest wine the house had, and then retired to Isabela's room. They didn't emerge for the remainder of the night, and while Varric knew they were there, he sat in his rooms, and didn't hear a sound from the room.

The dwarf held a blank book in his hands, and carefully wrote on the pages. A slow smile creased his face. "Glad you two finally figured it out," he said to himself, as he wrote the story of a god who fell in love with a thief, and the madness that threatened every step of their courtship. He had only one problem with his story: the ending.


	17. Chapter 17

Two weeks later, the relative calm was broken. Very bad things were on the horizon, Varric could feel it through his bones and into his marrow. He sat in Hawke's mansion, watching the mage pace the library. Hawke crossed from one side to the other, then walked up the stairs, paced the upper floor, then down the stairs. He loomed over his desk, rifled through papers, picked up a bundle of them, frowned at it, tossed it back, and then went back up the stairs to walk in circles a few more times.

Varric finally shouted at him, "In the name of Andraste, who did this, that, and the other thing for this entire Maker-damned world, would you sit your ass down?"

Hawke paused, and then sat down on the steps.

"That's better," Varric grunted. "When Enchantment Boy comes into the Hanged Man and informs me that you're wearing holes in the carpet – I believe he says something to the effect of 'roaming in circles, not so good' – then I know it's a bad sign. What the hell has you so jumpy anyway?"

"You were with us at Sundermount," Hawke said, his voice hollow. "You saw what happened."

The dwarf bowed his head. "It's a stupid thing to ask, but how is Merrill?"

"Remember how I was after my mother's death? And then after the Arishok?"

Varric nodded.

"Multiply it by ten. That's where her head's at right now."

Varric sighed. "What about Fenris? You heard anything from him since our little encounter with Danarius and his sister last week?"

"He's back to his old self," Hawke said glumly. "One encounter ruined seven years' worth of work. He's bitter, angry, humiliated. About the only positive thing is that he's not blaming me. Doesn't mean he's not blaming mages, but he isn't turning on me."

"I suppose Anders' little comment about jealousy didn't help."

"I also told Fenris not to kill his sister. It'll take him awhile to get over that, but he was with us when Carver died. I think he understands why I asked him not to, even if he's reluctant to forgive me for it."

"Think he'll be all right?" Varric asked, getting out of his chair and walking to the desk where a wine bottle and two glasses sat. he poured them both drinks and handed one glass to Hawke, who took it as he talked.

"I'll give him a few more days to stew, then I'll drag him to the Coast for some slaver mage killing. That always cheers him up."

Varric grimaced around the rim of his glass. "Damn, we have that many slaver mages running around the Coast these days? I thought you'd cleared most of them out."

"Every time I think I've found their nest, I find that I am wrong." Hawke gripped his glass in his hands. "On top of all this, Meredith and Orsino are both at my throat. Now I know how the Viscount used to feel."

"What's got their skirts bunched now?"

"They both asked me to track down some blood mage apostates. I killed two of them, and sent the third one on his merry way. The only danger he posed was to himself, so I let him go. I'd rather he lose his mind outside the city."

"I'm guessing the Knight Commander didn't take well."

"I think I had burn marks on my face from the tongue lashing."

"And Orsino?"

Hawke held out his hands about six inches apart. "You know those tiny dogs that Orlesians like to carry around? The really little ones that a mabari would eat for a snack?"

"Yes."

"If I had one of those little dogs, I would give it to Orsino and tell him to have a conversation with it, because it's bound to understand him better than I do." Hawke took a long drink. "He asked me to find a group of apostates congregating at night. Lo and behold, they've got some templars on their side, and most of that group is now dead, because if you ever suggest that perhaps people just need to sit down and have an adult conversation, they lose their minds and accuse you of being in league with 'the enemy.'"

Varric offered him more wine. Hawke declined, put his glass down, and ran his hands through his hair. "We are," he said flatly, "in the shit to our necks, dwarf. Advice?"

"If it's up to your neck, then I'm drowning in it," Varric replied.

Hawke laughed sharply. "If this keeps up, I'll drown with you." He exhaled heavily. "I do not know how much more of this I can take. I can't even talk to Elthina anymore. She's got templars lined up and down the staircases."

"Think it was her call?"

"Don't know; don't care." He looked at Varric. "What's the word in Lowtown?"

"Knight Commander's crazy; First Enchanter isn't much better. Rumbles from various groups. This city is in love with chaos," Varric said, shaking his head.

"Anyway to fix it?"

"Not unless you know a magic trick to make them all get along."

"Don't have enough blood in my body to control that many minds," Hawke said, grim humor in his voice.

Varric shook his head. "This blood magic thing of yours…"

"I haven't done blood magic since that incident with Anders. It's partially why I've been ignoring his every move. I don't want to be put in that position again where I leave myself open."

"So you're not technically a blood mage."

Hawke shrugged. "If cutting one's wrists and using blood to power spells a handful of times makes one a blood mage, then I suppose I am one, yes. otherwise, I'm just me."

"Good. It's hard enough dealing with one demon in flesh form."

"You've talked to him lately?"

"One doesn't talk to Anders so much as be bitched at."

"So you have talked."

Varric scowled. "The last time I wandered into his clinic, he was in the middle of a conversation with himself. Do you have any idea how unsettling it is to watch someone switch between personalities like that?"

Hawke rolled his eyes.

"All right, so I suppose you do." Varric looked at his wine glass. "Something's bothering you, other than the messes with Merrill and Fenris."

"We're on the edge," Hawke said. "The city is on a cliff, and it's two steps away from falling into the ocean."

"Very poetic. Almost like I wrote it. You're stealing my good material, Hawke."

Hawke sighed. "I said we're neck-deep in the shit. it's only a matter of time. could be a few days, maybe a few hours. I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about everything right now. The whole thing could collapse."

Varric frowned. "You think Orsino's going to make a move?"

"I don't know. I've got no idea what's about to happen." He rubbed at his eyes. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Don't tell me you think everything rests on you."

"What? You don't think it does?" Hawke gestured with his glass. "Haven't you been saying I was the hero of the story since we met?"

"I have been saying that," Varric agreed, "but it was mostly blowing smoke. If you really think you've got the balls to _be_ the man who leads this city…"

"Hell, no. Who would want that job?" Hawke shook his head. "No. Let Meredith run it. Let her and Orsino kill each other, and let their mages and templars eliminate everything around them. Leave us out of it. First chance that presents itself, Isabela and I are gone. I'm done with this place. I lost too much to it."

Varric watched his friend's face. Seven years ago, Hawke had a family, a mother and a brother; the Deep Roads had taken one, and Kirkwall had stolen the other. Hawke's eyes held laughter, but they also held a bitter pain, a rage that Varric knew the mage would always struggle against. The darkness was tempting, even the dwarf could see it.

He stepped in front of Hawke. "Hey," he said. "Look at me."

Hawke looked.

"I'm a champion of bullshit," Varric said. "I have spewed a thousand stories, and I've told a million lies. I've done most of that because it amused me. Other times, I did it because people needed to hear it. When it comes to you, Hawke… Marekh…" He snorted a soft laugh. "In all the time I've known you, I don't think I've ever called you that."

"You keep this up, I'll think you want something," Hawke said.

Varric waved his hand. "Just listen to me, won't you? Seven years took a smart-mouthed mage with nothing to the heights of power. Now, we're watching the city struggle against itself. You really want to give it the satisfaction of winning? Or are you going to see it through, until those two come to their senses and stop trying to drag us all down with them?"

"Seven years," Hawke echoed. "I suppose I do have a good group of friends to show for it, and a few decent enemies too. I'd rather have the friends."

"There you go. Think positive." Varric smiled. "Stick around long enough that we can sit back in the tavern, toast to the end of this little war, and we can laugh about it to the end of our days."

"So we should grow to be old men in this city?"

"Well, I certainly intend to be." Varric held out his hand. "Tell you what, Marekh Hawke, you go on and have your life at sea with your lady pirate. Just remember who your friends are, and don't either of you be strangers. As it is, I'll always have drinks at my table for you. My home is yours, and you're the best friends I've got. Sometimes, that's all a man needs."

Hawke took Varric's hand and gave it a firm shake. "How did I ever manage without my trusty dwarf?"

"Badly, if I recall." Varric grinned. "So long as you come back, Hawke. That's all I need to know. Make sure I know you two are alive somewhere. Until then, see it to the end. Even if we've got to tie them in chairs and make them sign a damned peace treaty, at least it'll end."

"I think we can manage that."

The library door suddenly burst open. They both jumped, and faced Fenris and Merrill, both elves looking panicked. "There was a… they did… it's… it's…" Merrill stammered.

"Sit!" Fenris barked at her, pushed her into a chair. He stepped in front of Hawke. "You must come with us. Now."

"What's happened?"

"It's Isabela!" Merrill squeaked.

"What?" Hawke got to his feet. "Speak up, what happened?"

"I saw them leaving the alienage," Fenris said. "Merrill was chasing after them, but they vanished. They took Isabela."

Hawke's eyes widened. "Castillon gave his word."

Merrill shook her head furiously. "No, no, it was a templar and a mage; that one templar, with the great red beard, and the mage with the brand on her eye. It was them, I swear, I saw them."

Hawke folded his arms. "Thrask and Grace," he muttered, recalling the sympathetic templar and the troublesome Starkhaven mage. He looked at Fenris. "You didn't see anyone else?"

"I did not see Anders, no, if that's what you're asking."

"It wasn't, but good to know. Where were they heading?"

"I don't know." Fenris growled curses under his breath. "There is only one person who might have set them on this path who is not the abomination."

Hawke gritted his teeth. "We need to find them." He held out his hand. "Wait here. I need to change. When I'm done, we're going to the Gallows. Orsino and I need to have a little chat."

* * *

The First Enchanter arched a gray eyebrow when Hawke kicked his door in.

"I will ask you where my friend is, and you will tell me," Hawke said.

"I do not know what you're talking about."

Hawke looked at Varric, Fenris, and Merrill. "Wait outside," he said to them. He reached out to close the door.

"Champion, if you wish to discuss matters, perhaps we can arrange—"

Hawke slammed the door, shutting the two of them in Orsino's office. The elf glared at him. "You are one of us," he said. "You understand what they will do."

"Where is Isabela?"

"I have no idea who this person is." Orsino folded his arms behind his back and wandered behind his desk. "Meredith sees corruption and blood magic everywhere. Imagine what she would do if she knew I had a blood mage in my office, and another outside the door. Why, she'd positively boil with glee. She'd make you Tranquil in public, and she'd smile the entire time. It would be a boon to her cause."

Hawke repeated his question.

Orsino ignored him. "For seven years, Master Hawke, I have watched and waited. In the three years since you delivered us from the qunari, our fight has grown stronger and weaker, all at the same time. We seek freedom, an end to Meredith's madness. She sees us as filth to be crushed. Her men follow, but some of them see differently. A few of them even see us as allies. Some of them would stand with us against her; some of them would see her die."

"Tell me where Isabela is."

"Meredith will destroy us. You must see this."

"I'm not interested in your politics, old man. Tell me where you've taken Isabela."

"I have not taken anyone," the First Enchanter said, turning his back to Hawke. "In fact, I would encourage no such behavior from anyone under my care. My mages know the tasks before them. The few templars who have pledged loyalty to me are not interested in harming you. They see you as an ally to sway, not an enemy to taunt."

"Thrask and Grace took Isabela. I know this as fact."

Orsino sounded bored. "What Thrask does is not my concern; Grace is as she is. I cannot encourage her otherwise."

"Orsino," Hawke said, digging the clawed fingers of his right gauntlet into the top of the First Enchanter's desk. "Of all the enemies you could make in this city, you should not have chosen me."

"We are allies, Master Hawke. We are both mages, and we serve to push the darkness back. Once Meredith is dealt with, you will have the strongest Circle in the Free Marches under your command. Would that not be preferable?" He approached the window behind his desk and peered outside. "for all the years I have been here, she has hounded my steps. A greater foe I've never known. I will crush her beneath my feet, or I will be crushed. Should the latter come to pass, I will ruin her from beyond the grave. She will never know peace, she will never know joy; she will suffer until blood runs from her eyes instead of tears, and until her heart screams with the hundreds killed beneath her boot."

"You want a war with Meredith. Are you out of your mind?" Hawke shouted at him. "The way you're talking, you sound like you want a war. You'll risk your people because of her blustering? She's got nothing that you haven't given her already."

"I have given her nothing. My patience is wearing thin, that is all. If it comes to war, then it comes. I am not afraid of her, and my people are with me. Meredith will tremble before us."

"I can't believe this," Hawke spat. "You want to ruin every life in your care because of your Maker-damned _pride_?"

"My pride has nothing to do with it," Orsino corrected him. He turned around and gave Hawke a steely look. "I gave no orders. Your name was mentioned. All I have said is that you would make a fine ally. There were no orders given."

"Sod your orders and sod your damn war. Tell me where she is, old man, or I will burn you alive."

"When two grown men can cast fireballs at one another, threats hardly matter," Orsino said, his gaze never faltering.

Hawke flinched.

Orsino searched his face. Hawke's pale gray eyes betrayed fear. Orsino smiled thinly.

"The Wounded Coast," the First Enchanter finally said. "Do try not to kick my door in again, won't you? I haven't the time for your noncommittal nature."

Hawke stiffly turned around and jerked the door open. "The Coast," he told Varric and the others. "Let's move."

Orsino listened to them depart, and shook his head. _Boy,_ he thought, _you are free, but blood only buys your freedom for so long. Sooner or later, you will choose._


	18. Chapter 18

It was nearing dusk when they reached the Wounded Coast. Hawke tried not to run farther ahead of his companions, but fear and worry dug at him. He had to know Isabela was safe, he had to know that things had not gone this far.

_Damn it, there isn't time for this. I need to see her, untouched. I didn't fight an Arishok and a group of Antivans for her just so some damned mage could take her. I didn't find you a ship just so I could lose you. I didn't promise you to the ends of the world for this._

"Hawke!" Fenris shouted at him. "This way."

The elf was turning down the twisting path to the small outcrop far below the coast. Hawke stared into the graying light of evening. He followed Fenris, Merrill at his left, and Varric on his right. He could save her, could bring her back. This was one person he would not allow to be lost.

He drew his staff into his hands, and caught up to Fenris, crouched behind a line of boulders. "There," Fenris pointed, and Hawke darted forward, hiding behind another grouping of rock. He felt his heart pounding his chest, his eyes burning in his head. He felt his fingers twitching, the temptation to eliminate them all with one spell growing.

_I could burn you all to the ground, and raise you up, just so I could burn you again._

He inhaled, struggling for calm.

He peeked over the top of the rocks, and saw the templar, Thrask, arguing with Grace. The mage wore pale violet robes, and waved her hands angrily in the templar's face as she shouted at him. Thrask kept gesturing out of Hawke's line of sight, but he saw another familiar mage, the boy, Alain, crouching behind Thrask. The boy was terrified, shaking.

Hawke stood up.

"What are you doing?" he heard Fenris hiss at him.

He waved his hand. "On my signal," he told his friend. "Not another move until then."

Fenris growled. Hawke glanced back at him, saw Varric and Merrill at his side. "Wait," he said again.

He walked forward.

Grace and Thrask stopped arguing as he approached. He glanced casually at the ground where Alain was kneeling. He saw Isabela, laying on the ground, still, her eyes wide-open, blood pooling in the sand beneath her. He set his jaw, and twisted his head to face Thrask.

"Master Hawke," the templar said, sounding shocked. "This is not what it appears to be."

"This I can't wait to hear," Hawke responded. He looked at Grace. "I'm starting to regret not killing you when we first met."

"You turned on us," she snapped at him. Her voice was filled with malice. "Decimus gave us freedom, and you killed the only man I ever loved. You murdered him."

"Last I checked, he tried to kill me."

She marched up to him, stabbing her fingertip into his chest. "You killed another mage! What kind of man is it that slaughters his own kind for nothing save templar glory?"

Hawke looked at Thrask, ignoring Grace. "I thought you were something good," he said. "You seemed like the kind of man who helped my father escape the Circle so long ago. Seems I was wrong, because you and this lot, you can't possibly do anything without destroying everyone else in your path." He looked at Isabela. "Is she alive?" he asked, his voice flat.

Thrask nodded. "I will not allow her to die. This was the only way to get your attention."

"You couldn't just _ask_ like a normal person?" Hawke grimaced. "The rate you're going, it'll take a miracle to convince the Chantry that you _aren't_ all crazy."

"So you're on Meredith's side after all," Grace spat.

Hawke glared at her. "I'm on my own side, no one else's. Grace, you're being an idiot. Thrask, you honestly think this helps anybody? You had a daughter once. What about her?"

Thrask bowed his head. "Master Hawke, your friend is undamaged. I promise you."

"Oh, see that's the first trick you learn as a mage," Hawke said, and Thrask visibly flinched at the red light flickering in Hawke's eyes. "The first trick: twist the enemy until they can't see anything but you, and they'll do anything you say. Funny how easy it is to make everyone afraid when they think they've got you figured out."

"You understand," Grace said. "You should be with us. You shouldn't stand with Meredith."

"Maker damn it, Grace, I'm not with Meredith!"

"Then prove it!" she shrieked. She pulled a knife from her belt. "I suspect the kind of man you are," she said, and she locked eyes with him. "You've touched it, tasted it. You know what we really are, what they've been forcing us to hold back. You know what kind of people we can be." She handed him the knife. "Prove you're one of us. Prove to me that you'll aid us, and I'll let her go."

Hawke took the knife.

"Prove it," Grace said again. "I can sense what you've done. I can see how close you are to the darkness. You and Decimus, you are the same. You can lead us."

"You really believe that," he said, awed at the insanity that brimmed in her eyes.

"I've seen the world he promised me. I know what waits for us in the end." She reached out her hand and turned the blade so it pressed to his wrist. She smiled at him, and it was almost kind. "I'll let her go. All of your friends can leave. I'll grant each one safe passage. Meredith will feel the full force of our rage, our hatred. She'll burn before us, Hawke. You just have to prove to me that you're on my side."

Hawke's eyes shifted to Isabela. He could see her eyes, wide, fading, saw the life he'd had, the one he'd so desperately wanted. The knife was easy, it was a way; it was one way to save one person, to just stop the entire thing.

He saw a tear streaking down Isabela's face.

He looked at Grace. She grinned wildly at him. He threw the knife, point first, into the sand at her feet. "When will you people realize that I don't give a damn about sides here?"

Her smile faded immediately, and her mouth twisted into a vicious snarl. "Alain! The bastard won't listen to reason. Kill the woman, as we agreed."

The boy startled. "Grace, Grace, no, that, that wasn't the deal."

She slapped him. "Idiot! I dragged you out of imprisonment. I'm offering the chance to live forever in glory."

"Grace, you must stop this! This isn't the way!"

"There _is_ no other way." She ripped the knife out of the ground.

Hawke swiped at it, Grace raked her fingers through the air, and Hawke felt cords of invisible magic wrapping around his throat. He choked, his fingers lashing up, dropping his staff, fingertips digging into his own flesh. He felt blood beneath his fingernails. He couldn't scream.

As quickly as it began, it was over. He collapsed to the sand, coughing, dimly heard footsteps. He felt Merrill's hand on his shoulder, and waved her away, grasping for his staff, his bloody fingers staining the sand. Fenris stood defensively in front of him as his hands wrapped around the wood.

Hawke saw Grace, on her knees, in front of Thrask. The templar's right hand was glowing faintly, and he reached out for Grace's head. "Grace. There will be no more killing. This has gone too far. It must end here. I am sorry."

She was fast. She jumped to her feet, made the same gesture with her hands, and Hawke saw Thrask's face and neck crushed in front of his eyes. Blood flowed from the dead templar's eyes, from his mouth, his last expression one of betrayal. The body dropped, and Grace turned to Alain. "Do what I tell you," she said maliciously.

Alain refused.

She retrieved her knife, raised it above her head. She turned to face Isabela's body.

Hawke bolted forward, crashing into her. He knocked Grace away, scrambled back, and shouted at Fenris. The elf seemed to fade out of his view, and when Grace whirled to face him, Fenris' hand was buried to the wrist in her chest. She looked at him, hate swirling in her eyes. He crushed her heart, and she fell, her face forever frozen in a mask of spite. The elf shook her blood from his hand, and rejoined Hawke and the others.

Alain whimpered beside Isabela's body.

"What did you do to her?" Hawke demanded. "Whatever you did, Maker help me, but you'll undo it, or Orsino will have one less mage to worry about."

"I, I, it's blood magic. I… Grace forced me, I had no choice!"

Hawke reached out and gripped Alain by the front of his shirt. "Undo the spell," he rasped, "or I will make you wish I'd killed you seven years ago."

Alain trembled. Hawke shoved him. "Undo it," he said. "Now."

Alain knelt over Isabela, touched the bloody pool in the sand, grasped his own knife, and slashed his wrist deeply. The blood whipped out of his veins, merged with the blood on the sand, and it seemed like bloody bindings suddenly released Isabela. She gasped loudly, and lurched into a sitting position. She saw Alain and spat in his face. The mage did not react.

Hawke reached out and pulled Isabela up, supporting her with his arm.

"You didn't…?" she murmured.

"No," he said.

"Good," she said. "Wasn't up for dragging you out."

Hawke looked at Alain.

"Kill him," Fenris said flatly. "We cannot afford this mistake again."

The boy looked utterly broken.

"Let him kill himself," Hawke said. "Don't waste another blade or arrow on him. Don't waste a spell. He's got the dead for company. Leave him to them." He looked at Alain. "If I see you in Kirkwall again, I will kill you. There won't be a single place you can hide. If I catch wind of you, I'll hunt you down, and if I find you, you'll pray for death by the time I'm done with you."

Alain said nothing.

"Let's go," Hawke said. "Let's get home before I march into the Gallows and kill Orsino for this."

Their journey back to Kirkwall was silent.

* * *

Late that night, Isabela sat in Hawke's bed, wrapped in a blanket, her hair loose around her shoulders, quietly staring off into space. Hawke stood in front of the fire, his elbow resting on the mantle, watching the flames.

"Thank you," Isabela said softly.

"You'd do the same," he replied.

He turned around. She held out her arms to him, and he crawled into the bed beside her, resting in her arms, breathing in the scent of her. She was alive, whole, untouched. She fell asleep before he did, and he lay there for a very long time, lost in thought.

Sometime in the early morning hours, as the first dull rays of morning light crept across Kirkwall, something caught Hawke's restless eyes. He saw a stack of papers on the bedroom desk. He slowly disentangled himself from Isabela's grasp. She clutched at his pillow, and curled around it, sound asleep.

He smiled fondly, and walked to the desk. He picked the papers, a bunch bound in twine. In blocky yet delicate script, the words screamed at him: _Out of Bondage Shall You Be Led: On the Freedom of Mages, and the Tyranny of the Templar Order_. There was a small blue ink seal at the bottom of the first page.

He grimaced.

_Anders._

_You've caused me enough pain these past seven years._

_This is the last._

He dressed in the darkness, slinging his staff over his shoulder. He stalked down the stairs, the papers clutched in his hand. He found Bodahn standing near the fireplace, absently stroking the dog's head. "Oh, messere. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Could ask you the same thing."

"Couldn't sleep I'm afraid; the boy's having some bad dreams. Doesn't help me sleep too well." Bodahn sighed, then noted Hawke's apparel. "You'll be heading out then, messere? Should I inform your lady friend?"

"If I'm not back before she wakes up, tell her I'll meet her at the docks later." He held out his hand to Bodahn; the dwarf gave him a firm shake. "You've been a tremendous help to me, Master Feddic," Hawke said formally. "You and Sandal have been wonderful company these past several years. I want you to know, today's the day I'm leaving. I won't be back after this." He looked at the mabari hound, staring up at him with intelligent eyes. "I can't take him with me. Take care of the old dog for me, will you, Bodahn?"

"Sandal and I will give him a fine home, Master Hawke."

"Thank you." Hawke looked at a small potted plant in the corner. "Bodahn, one last thing, since I can't do it: will you leave roses on my mother's grave next year? I don't think I'll be here for it. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't make it, but I'm all right. Though I'm sure she knows."

"As you wish, Master Hawke." The dwarf looked very sad. "Mistress Leandra would have been very proud of you, ser. It's been a pleasure to serve you. May we meet again someday." The dwarf returned his attention to the fire.

"Take care, Bodahn. Give my message to Isabela."

"Of course, messere. It's the least I can do."

Hawke walked out the front door.

* * *

Hawke walked into the clinic. Anders looked at him, a dull look on his face. He seemed thinner, and he moved slowly, like an old man. Hawke approached the desk and put the bound pages on top.

Anders looked at them. "Did you read it?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No. I didn't read it. I almost lost someone to mages today. I am not fighting this war, Anders. I'm done with it."

"Hawke—"

Hawke silenced him with a look. "I'm leaving. This entire city can burn. You want to die for them, then go ahead. I'm tired of this. I'm exhausted. You've pushed me so far, Anders, that I can't even describe how much I hate you." He held up his hands. "Your people, these precious mages you want so badly to be free, they're all insane. Orsino wants to die gloriously. Meredith wants everyone – mage and non-mage alike – crushed. None of you are right. None of your causes are just. You're all mad, and you bloody deserve each other."

He waved his fingers. "I have touched the darkness because of you, Anders. I'm not afraid of myself anymore because I know what I am. I could thank you for it if I didn't want to kill you. Every single thing you've done, every action against my friends and me, it's gained you nothing. When this is over, and you're standing triumphant, I hope you realize what it cost you." He turned to the door.

"That's how you want it?" Anders called softly after him. "Does it truly have to be this way?"

"It didn't have to be," Hawke admitted. "You had plenty of chances."

"So did you."

Hawke glanced back. "I was never your enemy," he said.

"But I went and made myself yours," Anders finished for him. "Perhaps that's what I needed. I didn't need an ally to encourage me. I needed an enemy to fight me." He smiled faintly. "I don't hate you. Isn't that interesting?"

Hawke walked away.


	19. Chapter 19

He went to Merrill's house first. She was outside, haggling with a fruit merchant. "Good morning," she greeted Hawke. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." He kissed her cheek. "How about you?"

She smiled sadly. "I'm glad Isabela's all right. I'm a bit nervous, though."

"Why's that?"

"There were two people creeping about the alienage when I got home last night, an archer and a mage."

Hawke froze. "What was the archer wearing?"

"I saw a blue scarf at his belt."

He frowned. "Grey Wardens."

Merrill shivered. "Did Anders make them upset again?"

"I don't really care." He reached out and took her hands. "Merrill… Maker, this is hard. I'm leaving."

She looked confused.

"Isabela has her ship. She's sleeping at my home right now, but when she wakes up, Bodahn's going to give the message, and we're leaving. I'm not staying to fight this war. In an hour, I want you to go to the Hanged Man. Varric will be there. I'm going to talk to Fenris, Aveline should be in the Keep, and I have to talk to her, and then I'm talking to Varric. I want you to stay with Varric and Fenris, and then I want the three of you to leave the city while you can."

"Why? You're scaring me. What's going on?" Merrill gripped his arms. "Hawke. Tell me what's happening."

"It's coming down," he said softly. "I don't know how, but I feel like what happened with Isabela was their last attempt. It was the last move they could make. Stay with Varric and Fenris, Merrill; they'll keep you safe."

She looked crushed. "You're running away."

"No, I… shit." He closed his eyes tightly, and then hugged her. "Daisy," he said, using Varric's fond nickname, "I'll be at the docks this afternoon. Isabela will meet me there. If you're there, come with us. Varric and Fenris can watch out for themselves, but… but you'll come with us. I won't leave you here for them."

"For who? Hawke. Please. By the Dread Wolf, _make sense_." Her eyes were brimming with tears. "Please," she whispered.

"The storm's coming," Hawke said. "You'll come with Isabela and me. We'll ride it out."

Her lips trembled. "Hawke…"

"Get your things. Meet us at the docks. It's the last thing I can give you." He kissed the top of her head, and hurried away, leaving Merrill confused and on the brink of tears.

* * *

Fenris stared at him for several moments after Hawke explained his intentions. "You are leaving," the elf echoed.

"I can't stay. I cannot stay in this city one day longer. They're going to drag me to the edge, Fenris, and I can't put more people at risk."

"Who are you risking?" Fenris wanted to know. "Is your self-control so limited?"

"It's not my self-control. They could have killed Isabela. Danarius is done hunting you, but more could come, more mages from the Circle, if they find out what you did." Hawke shook his head. "No. I'm not risking any more of my friends. If I can, I'll take Merrill with us, but you and Varric should get out of the city. Aveline and Donnic can handle themselves, but I'll tell them the same thing. I want my friends safe." Hawke walked over and put his hands on Fenris' shoulders. The elf gave him a curious look but did not shrug him away. "In all your life," he asked Fenris, "didn't you ever just want to be free to make your own destiny, not have it plotted out for you by people who didn't give a damn?"

"Are you saying you do?"

"You're my friend. You're one of the better men I know. I give a damn. It's why I want you where they can't touch you, and if you've got Varric, then you're both safe."

"You care too much," Fenris said softly. "It will get you killed. The monster you're fleeing, what if he finds you?"

"I'll kill him," Hawke replied. "He won't hunt me anymore."

Fenris nodded, then pressed his hands against Hawke's head. "I have never call another person 'friend', Hawke," he said quietly, "and perhaps you and I are not friends."

"Fenris…"

"Let me finish." The elf smiled, and it was filled with regrets. "Brothers, I think. You lost yours, long ago, but you returned to this city, not quite broken, but nearly there. You fell into the darkness, but you returned from it, a stronger, more confident man. In my life, I've never known a friend like you. Instead, I have known a brother."

"Not taking my name, though," Hawke joked.

"Not a chance," Fenris said, smiling broadly. "You, my friend, my brother, will live a glorious life on the seas. Don't forget us."

Hawke nodded. "Never could. I'm off to see Aveline. Go to the Hanged Man in about an hour. I should be done talking to Varric by then."

"Will I see you there?"

"Not likely."

"Then, walk in the eyes of the Maker, Marekh Hawke. The finest mage I've ever known.; my friend and my brother. I hope to see you again someday."

"Count on it," Hawke said.

"Then be well," Fenris said, and bowed his head. "I will see you someday."

"You as well… brother."

Fenris smiled. "Away with you, then."

Hawke left the old mansion. He hurried to the Keep.

* * *

Donnic frowned at him the entire time he talked. Aveline sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled, a sharp gaze in her eyes.

"So, in short," Hawke said, "we're leaving. Today. It's done and settled. I won't be talked out of it."

Donnic sighed. "I don't suppose we could talk him out of it," he said to Aveline.

"He's as stubborn as a child," Aveline agreed.

"Might even be worse than a child."

"Stubborn as a mage, perhaps."

"Mages are plenty stubborn, dear wife. Look at the ones we deal with on a daily basis."

Hawke raised his hands. "All right, all right, I get it. I'm a terrible person."

"Terrible?" Aveline echoed. "No, but you're certainly leaving us holding the bag here."

"So get out," he said.

"What? Just abandon the city?" Donnic sounded horrified. "The guard exists to preserve order. We can't leave."

"You don't understand," Hawke said. "What happens when they finally snap?"

"We do as we have always done," Aveline said firmly. "We hold our ground and we damn the flood."

"Oh, bloody hell, now you make me sound like a coward," Hawke complained.

"No," Aveline said. "You're no coward. You've spilled enough blood for this city. I'd never call you a coward. What I will say is this: whatever happens in Kirkwall will not remain within. It will spread, like a festering wound." She looked at her husband. "You know this is true."

Donnic nodded grimly. "They talk where they think we can't hear them. I've heard rumblings in the under city. The free apostates, they are planning something. I have no idea what, but they are preparing."

"No leads?" Hawke asked desperately.

"Only one," Donnic replied. "Aveline has forbidden me to follow it."

"I will not risk my husband to that abomination," she said, folding her hands. "I will not risk any of my guards when it comes to that creature."

Hawke nodded. "I understand."

"When do you leave?"

"As soon as I've spoken with Varric. I'm meeting Isabela and we're gone. Merrill may come with us, I don't know. I've already told Fenris to get out, too. I'll tell Varric the same. Damn it all, but you're my friends, and I want you safe." Hawke pressed his hands into the desk. "You two didn't fight to find each other just so you could die in a war that isn't your fight."

"This city is my battlefield," Aveline said, leaning back in her chair. "I will not quit the field."

Hawke stood up, his mouth set in a firm line. "Fine. Promise me, though, that if it comes to the city or you, sod the bricks and walls, they can be rebuilt. You two can't be. If it comes to it, run. Live. It's the only thing I want."

Donnic took Aveline's hand. She nodded to Hawke. "If it comes," she agreed.

Hawke thanked her. He suddenly reached for his throat and tore free a slim chain with a small oval-shaped locket attached. He handed it to Aveline. "In case I can't be here to talk to her anymore," he said. "Watch out for my mother, would you?"

Aveline took the locket and closed her fingers around it. "Tell the harlot I said good luck," she said softly.

"Just don't arrest her again, Guard Captain. We'll call it even."

Aveline nodded, and turned her attention to her husband.

Hawke took the stairs two and a time to get out. He feared that if he stayed a moment longer, he might not leave the city at all.


	20. Chapter 20

Varric was waiting for him outside the tavern. He shrugged in greeting. "I know, I know, you and the Rivaini are gone for good. I know. She was already here to say good-bye. Bought me a drink and everything. I'll walk with you."

"You're not trying to stop me?"

"Why would I? If I had my way, I'd go with you, but that's not happening."

"Stay with Fenris. He needs someone to keep him grounded."

"I think I can handle that." Varric smiled. "I'll teach him a few jokes."

They began walking to the docks. It seemed like the trip took hours instead of minutes. Hawke felt like the world was slowing down.

"It's the last run," he told Varric.

"Best kind of run there is," the dwarf replied. "Just don't leave me hanging. I told you, I want messages."

"If you and Fenris are on the run…"

"I'll figure it out. Leave messages at every bar you come across. I'll eventually get them."

"You've thought of everything."

"I'm practical," Varric said.

Hawke laughed. "Can't imagine what I'd do without you."

"You've said that before. We established that you'd fall apart."

"Think I've got someone to keep me on my feet now."

"Good. You know, I wouldn't have said so before, but she's good for you."

"I think we'll have some grand adventures." Hawke sighed, folding his arms. "Feel that chill?"

"Salt air, Hawke. You'll get used to it."

They wandered through the docks, heading for the berth where Isabela's ship was docked. When Hawke saw the ship, he stared. Varric gave a low whistle. Isabela leaned over the edge, gripping the nets. "Well?" she called. "What do you think?"

The ship was massive, a two mast monster, with lush, cream-colored sails sporting beautifully painted red sigils. The wood gleamed, earthy colors across the boards, with the lovingly carved portholes revealing their contents, cannon openings aimed at the docks. On board, a small crew milled about, awaiting their next step. Isabela shouted orders at them periodically, her face lit up with a smile, the sunlight glinting off her jewelry. She looked at home.

"Beautiful," Hawke said quietly.

Varric snickered. "The ship or the girl?"

"Both."

The dwarf grinned. "Rivaini! Get down here. You owe me."

She sighed. "We've already established that I don't owe you three sovereigns, dwarf."

"Not that! I want a hug!"

Isabela laughed, tossing her hair back. She climbed down the nets and leapt onto the dock. She landed beside Varric and embraced him tightly. "Silly little dwarf," she said. "I will miss you."

"Me, too, Rivaini. Take care of the mage here, huh? He's liable to get crazy in a few days."

"I'm fine," Hawke said.

Varric snorted. "I know you." He pulled away from Isabela, and then took them both by the hand. "You two," he said, shaking his head. "You two are going to make the best story I ever tell. If anyone ever gets it wrong, I'll kill them. Well, maim. Any bard who butchers this loses all of his fingers, and gets his lute jammed up his ass."

"I can live with that punishment," Hawke said.

"I hate lutes," Isabela said.

"Last chance, Hawke," Varric said abruptly. "You really doing this? We've still got a place for you."

Isabela grasped Hawke's arm. "Not a chance. We decided."

"You know me," Hawke said. "I can't say 'no' to a pretty face."

"Oh it's just 'pretty' is it?"

"It's beautiful. It's radiant. It glows in the aftermath, and it—"

"Stop it, Hawke. I'm blushing."

"Oh that's what that is." He kissed her.

Varric clapped loudly.

Isabela giggled, pushing him aside. Her face abruptly shifted to a frown. "Is that Merrill?"

"Oh, good," Hawke said. "I was afraid she wouldn't—"

"You have to come with me!" the elf screamed at them, her feet slapping against the walkway. "You have to come now! The Knight Commander and the First Enchanter, they, they… Mythal, I don't know what they're doing but, but you have to come with me. Aveline's trying to calm them down, and Fenris is watching out, but you three have to come with me. You've got to stop them, Hawke," she said, grabbing at his hand. "You've got to come with me."

Hawke looked in the direction Merrill had run from. He could hear raised voices, and the distant crackle of fire. He swallowed, and looked at Isabela. She gave him a nod. Varric gestured. "Come on," the dwarf said, his voice suddenly strained. "Let's go. Sorry to cut your escape short."

"Maybe we can make them stop," Merrill muttered as they walked. "Maybe Hawke can talk some sense into them. maybe he can make them just stop."

"Kitten," Isabela said, reaching out to grab one of Merrill's hands. "Kitten, stop fretting."

"But, but, but—"

"Kitten. It's fine." Isabela watched Hawke, taking the lead, climbing the stairs to the docks' main platform, where Orsino and Meredith were shouting at one another.

"You are harboring apostates, blood mages, and I will have them!" Meredith shouted.

"Blood magic! That's all you see! Where do you not see it?" Orsino retorted.

"I know what I know, Orsino, and you've stood in my way long enough. If you do not turn over the ones you are hiding, I will take the necessary steps."

"Empty threats," Orsino sneered. "You'd do nothing to jeopardize your status in this city."

Hawke had enough. He stepped forward, and shoved himself between them, pushing them back with his hands. "If you two can't shut up for one Maker-damned moment, I'll call the Grand Cleric and have you both thrown in a single room in the Gallows where you can tear each other apart without anybody else getting in the way. Wouldn't that be ideal? I'd rather you kill each other than keep up this pathetic little power struggle. Hasn't the city had enough of you both?"

"If you stand against me, Champion," Meredith said, her mouth pinched angrily, "if you stand against me, know that I will have you hunted to the end of the world. I will have your head on a spike."

"And then you'll lose your whole city," Hawke said softly. "They'll know you as the woman who killed the one person keeping you at bay."

The Knight Commander's cheeks were flushed with rage. "This is helping your cause, is it?" Hawke growled at her. "You stand up here, shouting and flailing and who's on your side, Meredith? You talk and you talk, and all you get is more hate, more bloodshed. You're so desperate to keep your power that you'd kill innocent people. You're an idiot, Meredith."

She sputtered, but could not reply.

"It seems not all bow to you," Orsino said proudly.

Hawke whirled. "Don't pull me into this, you smug shit," he snarled. "I'm not on anybody's side except my own. I've told you both that from the beginning. I don't give a shit about either of you. Meredith's wrong, Orsino, you're wrong. You two would tear down this whole city just because you can't accept that you're _both bloody wrong."_ He was screaming at them.

"And you're right?" Orsino countered.

"No!" Hawke bellowed. "I'm not right! I don't care! I just want out. I want to leave you all behind, let you just kill each other. I spilled my blood for this damn city, and what do I get for it? You two, begging for my aid, demanding that I bow to one or the other, when all I want is to walk away."

Orsino's face paled.

Hawke felt blood leaching from his nose. He swiped his hand across his face. His eyes burned.

Meredith's face twisted into a mask of loathing. "You are not…"

Hawke felt blood leaching from his eyes.

"By the Maker," Orsino whispered.

Hawke stumbled away from them. He stood near Isabela and Varric. He saw Fenris and Aveline, crowding in front of him.

Meredith turned. "Guard Captain!" she ordered. "You will do as you are commanded."

"You've gone far enough," Aveline said. "The Champion nearly died for this city, something I haven't seen a single templar willing to do."

Meredith snarled, saliva spilling across her lips. "You have no idea," she roared. "You do not have the first idea what my templars will do for this city!"

"Enough!"

Hawke whirled between his companions, blood sliding down his face, staring along with Orsino, who had begun to creep away. Meredith was interrupted. Furious, she looked at the approaching figure.

Anders walked through a slowly parting crowd. "This has gone on for long enough," he said, his voice strong.

"This not the time or the place," Orsino said to him.

"We've wasted _enough_ time, Orsino!" Anders slammed his staff into the ground. He lifted his head, his eyes burning blue, his voice shifting. "We have wasted enough _**time on this foolish war when all that we needed to do was at our fingertips. In our patience, we wasted precious time. in that precious time wasted, we could have saved a hundred lives, a thousand, and instead, we find ourselves here, at this moment."**_ The possessed mage looked at Meredith. His lips curled back. "_**We will see you dead before this day is out. The Maker averts His gaze from you, murderess. There is no glory in your cause, no justice."**_

Meredith's face quivered. "Abomination," she said, her voice thick.

Justice roared with laughter. "_**And such an abomination it is! A Circle mage who made a choice, a living choice, and who said to the world 'I will be free!' and when the world replied 'No!' the mage made one final choice. One last thing that must be done."**_

Anders turned toward them. Hawke saw smoke rising around his feet. He felt pressure in his head, the blood dripping down his face pulsed and danced, like it was a living thing. He felt his spine convulse. The very air felt _wrong_. "No, no, no," he whispered. His hands twitched.

Isabela clutched his hand. "Don't," she whispered furiously.

"Isabela… it's… Isabela… I… What's happening?" His voice cracked.

She dug her fingernails into his hand. "Hawke. Don't."

The ground rumbled beneath their feet. Isabela looked panicked. Varric swore; Merrill whimpered beside him. Aveline and Fenris stood their ground, but even they appeared wary.

"What's he done?" Hawke whispered. "Maker's breath, Isabela, what's he about to do?"

"I… I don't know."

They all turned their eyes, everyone gathered on the docks facing Hightown, far above. The spires of the Chantry had been gleaming moments ago. Storm clouds seemed to descend, tidal waves crashing together in the sky, the thick blanket of black and gray covering Kirkwall.

"What's he done?" Hawke repeated. His head was awash with blinding pain, his eyes burning, and his blood almost on fire inside his veins.

He ripped away from Isabela, and rushed at Anders. "Anders! What are you doing?" he shouted, his eyes gleaming red in his skull. He grabbed at Anders, but the other mage wrapped an arm around his throat, pinning him. Hawke struggled.

Anders' lips twisted into a smile. "_**I was never your enemy,"**_ the voice said, "_**but then you went and made yourself mine."**_ He gripped Hawke's jaw, and forced him to look.

The trembling beneath their feet seemed to flow up through the city, and suddenly four great pillars of fire erupted from the Chantry spires. The fire rose up to the sky, and then crashed down, stone, mortar, steel, glass crunching and exploding out in Hightown, the Chantry obliterated in a maelstrom of death.

Hawke's eyes were wide. Anders released his face and throat, and stepped away. The blue glow faded from his eyes, and he collapsed to his knees, exhausted, sweat drenching his face and hands. He rubbed at his eyes, and looked up. Smoke and flames licked the sky.

Anders smiled.

Hawke barreled into him. "You stupid bastard!" he screamed. "What the hell have you done?"

"I made you my enemy," Anders replied.

Hawke gripped the front of his robes, dragging the other mage up. He looked at Meredith and Orsino, both having temporarily forgotten their feud. Hawke blinked, and tasted water and blood on his lips. The clouds opened up, rain soaking the crowd, washing the blood from Hawke's face, but his eyes remained faintly red.

"The, the Grand Cleric?" he heard Orsino's weak voice.

Meredith was trembling so furiously the plate armor she wore sang with every movement. "The Grand Cleric is dead," she said slowly, "killed by a mage."

Orsino's eyes grew wide. "Meredith, no, no this is not—"

"I invoke the Rite of Annulment," the Knight Commander said. "Every mage in the Kirkwall Circle is to be killed, the Gallows razed. I will not rest until each and every one of you are dead."

"What?" Hawke sputtered. "You can't!"

"It is my right," the Knight Commander said coolly. "You are an apostate. Your death is required by law."

Orsino surprised Hawke by stepping in front of him, his arms raised. "You cannot hold the Circle responsible for the act of one apostate mage. The Champion did not do this. This abomination did. You cannot blame us for _his_ actions."

"You are all complicit," Meredith said. She turned to face Aveline. "Your orders," she said, "are to hunt down—"

"_I_ do not take your orders," Aveline interrupted. "I am the Guard Captain of Kirkwall, not you. My guards will not help you, and I will not order them to do so."

Meredith swore, and it was a startling sound. She turned to her templars. "Do as you are commanded," she said sharply. "I will tolerate no—"

The templars fled.

Meredith turned her furious gaze on Orsino. "You will be first then," she said.

Orsino shook his head. "You will not do this, you will not punish us for an action you couldn't stop before it reached this point. You will not kill every mage to preserve your own power." His voice grew stronger. "_You_ are the abomination among us, Meredith."

The Knight Commander looked at Hawke, still stricken, still clutching the limp-legged Anders in his grip. "Stand with me," the Knight Commander said, "and I will spare your life."

"A minute ago you wanted me dead for being a blood mage, then you wanted me dead for being an apostate, and now you want me to help you so you can kill me later?" Hawke laughed, and it was a dry, broken sound. "Chantry-sponsored _bitch_," he snarled at her. "Go fight your own battle."

Meredith spat at him. "I will find you, Hawke."

"Good hunting," Hawke said. "Maybe I'll see you in the Void."

Orsino watched the Knight Commander depart. "She will go to the Gallows," Orsino said. "Please, come with me. We will warn who we can, we'll save what we—"

"You just don't bloody get it," Hawke rasped. "I'm not on your side, I'm not on her side. You want to fight her, fine, but leave me out of it. Leave me alone."

Orsino looked at him sympathetically. Clearly, the younger man was exhausted, flustered. He would come around shortly, the First Enchanter was certain. "We will wait for you at the Circle," he said quietly. "In the meantime, I leave this… friend of yours for you to deal with." He gestured to Anders. "Fool," Orsino said. "Don't you realize what you've done?"

"I'm free," Anders said, and his eyes shimmered. "I made my greatest enemy finally listen to me. I'm free."

Hawke let him go, shoving Anders away.

Orsino put a hand on Hawke's shoulder. Hawke shrugged him off. Orsino nodded. "Very well. Find us at the Circle. We will win this day."

"Go away, Orsino," Hawke muttered.

The First Enchanter gestured to the few mages gathered, and hurried for a barge to take them to the Gallows.

That left Hawke's group, the Champion himself, and Anders, alone in the rain.

* * *

Hawke turned to the group. He pointed to the stairs leading to Hightown. "Aveline, get your guards, keep people off the streets, and evacuate who you can. Isabela, go with Merrill, get the elves out."

"My guards can do that," Aveline told him. "Those two are needed elsewhere."

Hawke nodded. "Merrill should go with the guards to the alienage. The elves know who she is. They'll listen to her. Won't they?"

"I… Yes, yes, they'll listen," Merrill said. She stood up straighter. "We'll get them out."

"Isabela, get your men ready to launch. I want them out of the docks, no sense getting caught in the fires."

Isabela nodded, and darted down the stairs. Hawke heard her whistling a sharp note. He swallowed a massive lump in his throat, and turned to Fenris. "Where do you want to go?"

"Where are you going?" the elf wanted to know.

"Haven't gotten that far. We have to stop them both." He clenched his fists. "I'll be in the Gallows soon enough. Come with me?"

"I'll get a skiff ready. Don't keep me waiting." Fenris held out a hand and clasped Hawke's wrist. "I'm serious, brother," he said firmly.

"So am I. See you there."

Fenris looked at Anders. The mage was sitting on a nearby crate, a blissful smile on his face, the rain soaking him. "I leave this in your hands," Fenris said quietly. "You know what must be done."

"I'm getting there," Hawke said. "Go."

Fenris nodded, his mouth set firmly, and walked down the stairs.

"Aveline!" Hawke shouted. "What are you still doing here? Go!"

Aveline gave him a wave of her hand and hurried to Hightown, shouting for any guards who might be nearby. Hawke heard the clanking of her plate armor as she ran. He closed his eyes briefly. _Carver,_ he thought, _little brother, if anything of your stubborn spirit still exists in this world, keep our friend the Guard Captain safe. I'll owe you for it later._

He pressed his hands against his face, raking his wet hair out of his eyes. He realized he was standing alone with Varric and Anders. The dwarf was silently watching.

Varric. At the end, it was only fitting that he should be standing there, loyal, glorious, the-best-man-in-the-world Varric. Hawke looked at him. Varric's arms were folded. "Your call," he said quietly. "I'm not sure we could do anything to him worse than what the Knight Commander's got in mind."

"Way to stay positive, Varric."

"I call it like I see it," Varric said glumly. "Which means you finish this and get your magey backside out of this bloody city as soon as you can."

Hawke turned to Anders. The other mage's back was to him, and as he approached, he realized that he couldn't feel the faint thrumming of power that always seemed to bleed off of Anders. He couldn't feel Justice, couldn't feel the spirit's presence in the air. Hawke felt tension slowly fading from his body, his eyes stopped hurting, and even his blood seemed calm.

"Do what you wish," Anders called to him. "Whatever you do, I've made my stand. My name will be sung. I've become a hero, like you. We should have been brothers in arms, heroes together, but they'll know me as the one who burned the Chantry. They'll know you as the one who burned the Arishok. Which one of us will live in history, Marekh?"

"I never wanted to live forever," Hawke replied.

"Funny," Anders said, "I always did. My favorite stories as a child were the ones about the immortal warriors. I wanted to be one."

"And was this worth this? Hundreds of lives gone, and you want me to believe it was worth it."

"It was worth a thousand lives. They'll remember me, rally under my name." He laughed. "I'll live forever," he said. "I'll live to the end of bloody eternity."

Hawke reached to the back of his belt and drew his knife.

"In a thousand more years," Anders continued, "the sun will shine on this day. The war will be done, the mages will triumph; the templars will burn. Tevinter will seem a pleasant dream. The true war was started the Free Marches, and Thedas will see a new empire rise. Immortality awaits us all, Hawke. They'll know our names, know who we were, what we did."

He stood up, and held out his arms. "You! You were the brave, brilliant refugee who came from nothing, and rose to the heights of power. You unraveled the darkness, pushed us forward, gave us the first opening and we seized it. Then, there was the trusty dwarf at your side, your best friend, the one who ensured that all knew your name. After him, the wrathful elven warrior, branded with lyrium, rage and hate for all mages, but who eventually came to call you friend, and then – oh, I do love this part – 'brother', when your real brother died in the Deep Roads at your hand because he was too _weak_ to survive the Taint." Anders laughed, and it verged on shrill insanity.

Hawke watched, his knife hand steady. He slowly approached.

"There was the blood mage you took in your care," Anders continued. "She damned her entire clan, but you still called her friend. She consorted with demons and you still called her worthy. Your precious Guard Captain, your only family left living, the only one who hasn't died because of you, and she'd follow you through hell if you asked her to." He grinned, and it split his face. "Your lady pirate, the one who toyed with you for years, danced a clever game with you, shared your bed, the one you gave your heart to. She's the one who finally got to you, made you touch the darkness, made you feel it like you've never felt anything before. She got under your skin. She stole everything you ever gave her, and she still got you in the end."

Hawke got closer.

"And me," Anders said, his voice dropping. "They'll talk of me, the one you cast aside time and again, the one whose hand you forced. They'll remember me as your companion, once your friend, then your enemy, the man who made the Champion of Kirkwall finally choose a side." He exhaled a sob and a laugh at the same time. "And I'll live forever," he said again.

Hawke walked around to face Anders. Anders lifted his head. Tears and rain streamed down his face. "Aren't we just a pair, Marekh?" he murmured. "You stood with me, you stood against me, and when I made my stand, you were helpless. Now, you'd try to undo all I've done. Choose a side."

"No," Hawke said. "I'm on my side. No one else's."

"Can't remain that way forever," Anders said. "Eventually, they'll come for you. They'll come for your friends. They'll get to you through _her_." His eyes sparkled with a dancing madness. "Will she still love you when they're tearing her apart to make you break? Mark me, but they'll kill her to make you fall. When you finally welcome your own demon in, remember what I'm telling you now. She didn't deserve you; she never deserved your love, your attention. She got you, though. She owns you, body, mind, heart, and soul."

Anders laughed softly. "Doesn't matter about that last one, though, because I'm sure it's long gone by now. How appropriate. I always knew she was a liar, a thief, and a no good wh—"

Hawke stabbed him in the chest.

Anders gawked, and looked down at the blade. Hawke jerked the knife out, bone cracking above the entry wound, blood spilling over his hands. He stepped away.

Anders raised his hands to the wound, stared at the foamy blood streaking his skin, looked at Hawke with eyes full of betrayal.

Hawke stepped back when Anders fell forward. He dropped the knife blade on the ground with a clatter of steel on stone, discarding his access to the darker power that he knew would consume him if he gave into it. "We were always enemies," Hawke said softly. "You stupid abomination. I lost so much because of you. I nearly lost myself. Because of you."

He shook his head, shaking the raindrops out of his eyes. Isabela stood in front of him. "The ship's going," she told him. "The crew will steer her in front of the Gallows, first opportunity. We can still get out."

"You think of everything," he said.

"Are you all right?"

He inhaled. "Yes," he said truthfully. He held up his hands, wiggled his fingers at her. "I'm ready to go light these people on fire, to knock some sense into their heads. Coming?"

"As long as it's a good time," she told him.

"Dear lady, I will always show you a good time." He grinned.

She saw the spark in his eyes, the familiar cheeky grin, the realness of _him_. She took his hand. "Lead on, love," she said. "I owe that cocky Chantry bitch a beating."

"For what?"

"No one threatens what belongs to me and lives," she said firmly.

Hawke gave her an amused grin. "I look forward to the fight," he said. "Maybe I'll set her on fire, just for you."

Isabela looked over her shoulder at Varric. "Coming, dwarf?"

"Lead on," Varric called, an odd expression in his voice. He seemed to be staring at something they couldn't see. "I'm right behind you," he said, rushing after them. They hurried down the steps to where Fenris waited with the skiff, leaving the abandoned dock and Anders' body behind. The rain pattered against the blood spilling across the ground, and the bloody puddles faded into memory.

* * *

Orsino died in an explosion of blood and flesh. Hawke wanted to scream at his damned corpse for more lives lost. Instead, what was left of the First Enchanter and his dead mages lay in their own blood and viscera, and he could do nothing except steel himself for the next battle. Meredith was out there, pacing like a wild dog, waiting for them.

He felt Isabela take his hand. "I'm with you," she said, her face spattered with blood. "First chance we get, once the bitch is dead, we run. My boys won't leave us behind."

"Your 'boys' already, Isabela? You've hardly known them a week."

"They're a good sort," she said. She smiled at him. "Same as some other good ones I know." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "When you're ready, Hawke, lead on. I'm with you to the end."

"Well, let's hope it's not a permanent end."

"Ah, but going out in full battle? Isn't that what you're suppose to want?" she teased.

"I still don't know what adventurous pirates do in nets," Hawke told her.

"Then you'd better survive," Isabela ordered. "I don't have time to train another man who's as good as you are."

He laughed, and then kissed her full on the mouth. It was different than all the other times, passionate, filled with promises of a future, opportunity, and a demand that she stay alive, since he promised to do so as well. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing against him, wanting it to last for as long as it could. When they separated, his lips were slightly bruised, and she realized she'd bitten him. "Don't die," she told him softly. "I'll be oh so very angry with you if you do."

"Don't worry, Captain. We've got our lives ahead of us." He took her hand and raced out the door of the mages' hiding place. Destiny, he thought back to the old witch's words, seven years back, a lifetime ago, when a reasonably innocent young man had brought a witch to the Free Marches in his pocket, a dream of a lost life, rekindled by ancient magic.

_Destiny awaits us both, dear boy._

_When the time comes, do not hesitate to leap._

_Cheap advice, from a dragon_, he'd said.

Now, he thought, _I see the cliff's edge, old woman. I'm not afraid of it anymore._

Isabela kept up with him. He heard Varric and Fenris running at his heels. He made it to the Gallows courtyard just as Aveline and Merrill rushed up the opposite stairs, the templars and the Knight Commander between them.

What happened next, Hawke was not entirely certain. It seemed that the templar, Cullen, refused to arrest him. Something snapped inside of Meredith, he could see it. It wasn't her heart, it was something in her soul, it shattered, broke, and then the legacy of the Deep Roads was in front of him, the massive sword carved from an ancient idol, a lyrium-tainted souvenir that had brought only death and rage to his life.

His own anger boiled up. Meredith's eyes glowed red. Hawke's eyes mirrored hers.

He raked his armored glove across his skin, streaks of blood oozing across his arm.

"What are you doing?" Isabela demanded.

"Just a boost, love," he said, and gave her a wide grin. "I've got it," he added. "I've got it under control."

He gripped his staff, charged at Meredith, swiped his bloody hand across her face, marking her, and cast a fire spell. She shrieked, and there was nothing human in her voice. She screamed at him, bellowing nonsense words, babbling insanely, quoting from the Chant of Light, but there was nothing left of Meredith, Knight Commander of Kirkwall.

Marekh Hawke might have laughed, but the surviving templars were being beaten. Every one that stood up, Meredith cut him down. Blood cascaded across stone; metal warped and crushed when bodies fell. Chaos, destruction, it had to end. The whole city was going to burn. It had to end here.

He tried to catch Meredith off guard again. He lost his footing. He slipped, blood streaming down his arm to pool on the ground.

He saw the Knight Commander, cackling, her voice high pitched, madness and power warping her into something else.

He pitied her for only a moment.

Isabela leapt onto the Knight Commander's back, gripping her sides with her legs, raised her arms, and buried her daggers deeply into Meredith's chest, cracking her armor. The Knight Commander hurled Isabela off, throwing her into Hawke, who caught her, shielded her, and then got to his feet. He braced himself, felt sparks of power flooding up his legs, down his arms, radiating out from his heart, and he cast the strongest fire spell he knew.

It burned down his arms, channeled out from inside him, felt like it was burning his flesh, burning through to his bones. He screamed against the power, felt it sucking away his life, gasped, inhaling fire, screamed again, but so dead set on burning Knight Commander Meredith until she was nothing but a memory that he forgot his own pain.

When she screamed, in time with his own agonized bellow, he could see her sword shatter in her hands. She shrieked, a wail of defeat. She fell to her knees, and he saw her, suddenly a statue, no longer human, nothing more than a stone with the face of an enemy.

He swayed.

Isabela caught him.

His clawed gauntlet was radiating red heat; the glove on his other hand was burned away. He could taste blood and smoke. He leaned on Isabela's shoulder. The others gathered alongside him.

He looked at the surviving templars. Knight Captain Cullen looked at him, a far away look in his eye. He turned his head.

Hawke knew it for the sign it was. Isabela helped him as he limped out of the Gallows. He saw Isabela's ship, ropes descended from the side, one man on a skiff gesturing to Varric and the others, hurry up, get a move on, let them get out, come on, we'll get you to safety. Move, move, move!

He struggled up the rope, saw Isabela board the ship, reaching out her hand to drag him with her. She shouted at her men, and the ship started to move. Hawke collapsed on the desk, the strength, the very will to live and fight gone out of him. He coughed, blood splattering past his lips.

Isabela screamed at him.

He fell forward, exhaustion, battle, and the drain of forbidden magic working against him. He felt a dull ache in his head. Isabela was kneeling above him, shouting in his face, but her words made no sense, they were so far away.

He raised a hand to touch her face.

She faded to darkness. He welcomed it.

* * *

Four days later, Aveline Vallen and her husband, Donnic, scoured the docks. "Any sign of him?" Aveline wanted to know.

Donnic grimly shook his head. "No. He's gone."

"That's not possible."

"Aveline, I have looked. I haven't found a single thing. The rain washed away most of the blood, too. I can't find him."

Aveline folded her arms. "I saw the body. He was bled white. There is no way he could have gotten up and walked away."

"He was a mage," Donnic reminded her.

"No," she said firmly. "He has to be here somewhere. Damn it, someone needs to pay for this." She sighed. "Or, perhaps he saved me the trouble, and crawled into the ocean and drowned. I suppose I don't truly care."

Donnic walked at her side. "Is there any word from Varric?"

"He and Fenris are in Ostwick. Merrill took the ship leaving for Ferelden. I don't know what she hopes to do there."

"She wouldn't stay with Varric?" Donnic asked, concerned.

"No. I've no idea where she thinks she's going."

"What of Hawke? Has there been any news at all?"

Aveline looked out at the ocean.

"Aveline?"

"I don't know," she said. "I honestly do not know."

Donnic took her hand. "Come on, love. We should leave while we still can."

"This was my home," Aveline said miserably. "I've lost it all. Again."

"Come with me, love," Donnic said again. "We must go."

"We have to come back," she told him. "We _must_ come back someday."

"Someday," Donnic agreed, and folded an arm around her shoulders. "Someday."

Aveline Vallen was too proud to let her husband see her weep for the city she'd called home. Several hours later, when they were aboard a ship bound for Ferelden, she hid herself in their room, and sobbed for lost friends, lost dreams, and the lost Hawke family – _her_ family – the one she had struggled so hard to protect.

_And now I must start again. It is not so simple a thing to do._ She thought of Donnic, and smiled, sorrow and regret, thinking of Marekh Hawke's laughing face on her wedding day, the pale gray eyes sparkling with pride, that infuriating grin on his face. She remembered his hand in hers, giving her away, that last joke on his lips, and then a small kiss on her cheek.

She touched her tear-streaked face. _You were one of the best men I knew,_ she thought. _And you gave me so much. My husband lives because of you; I have my own life, because of you. I've lost Kirkwall, but I still have Donnic._

She washed her face, and slowly walked onto the deck of the ship. Donnic leaned on the railing, the lazy wind splaying his hair across his face. Aveline walked over to him. He gave her a gentle kiss. "I'm sure he's alive," Donnic said, wrapping his arm around her.

Aveline said nothing. She leaned against her husband, and thought of the life ahead. It would be lonely at first, but Ferelden was familiar. It was a step in the direction of home.

"If we ever have a boy," Aveline told Donnic abruptly, "his name will be Carver."

Donnic gave her an odd smile. "Not Marekh?"

"No," Aveline said. "You name children for the dead. It's how they come back to you." She looked firmly at the horizon. "Marekh Hawke has to be alive. So I'll not pass his name on."

Donnic tightened his grip on her shoulders, and they watched the sky as the ship carried them over the sea, to a new life, and a future that they could build firmly for themselves.


	21. Epilogue 1

At a Deep Roads entrance close to the Orlesian border, a Legion of the Dead scout squinted at the two humans, supporting a third between them. "Is it dead?" the dwarf wanted to know. "It smells like it's dead."

"Would that it were," Nathaniel Howe grunted. "We need to see Mathieu. Where is he?"

"The outpost. Why?" The scout wrinkled his nose. "Bah, but it stinks. You sure it's not dead?"

"Where is Mathieu?" Nathaniel repeated.

"Why?" the scout asked again.

Thérèse Amell held out her hand, revealing a silver signet ring on her finger. "Grey Wardens may pass through the Deep Roads. I need to see Mathieu. This man is dying, and he has information I need. If I were a healer, I would have fixed this by now. I am not, however, and so I need Mathieu's expertise."

The scout peered at her suspiciously.

The woman returned his stare.

He shifted on his feet. "Warden Commander," he said, suddenly shy. "Forgive me, I… you humans all look alike to me."

"That's fine," she said. "Open the doors and take us to Mathieu."

"Right away, Commander." The scout pushed against the massive doors behind him, opening them, and gestured for the humans to follow. "This way. Come along."

The scout led them down a long winding tunnel to a flat outcropping of rock, an ancient area of buildings carved out of the living stone. The scout pointed them to a human man standing in the middle of the area, conversing casually with a Legion of the Dead commander. The man lifted his head and turned in their direction. He frowned. "Thérèse?"

"Mathieu. I've got a project for you."

"What's happening on the surface? The Legion runners are reporting something in Kirkwall. What's going on?"

Nathaniel indicated the man slung between them. "That's what we'd like to know."

"This man?" Mathieu reached out his hand and lifted the head. "Wait. This is the Warden from Amaranthine, seven years ago. What's he doing here?"

"That's not important right now," Thérèse said. "Heal him. He has information."

"This is the one who stole Stroud's maps!"

"Yes, Mathieu, and if you don't heal him soon, we'll lose a lot more than maps," she snapped.

"Yes, yes," Mathieu said, flustered. "Bring him with you. We'll see what we can learn."

* * *

The Free Marches were still burning months after the siege. The tales of the Kirkwall rebellion grew wider and stronger in number, some getting the names wrong, others insisting that what had transpired hadn't really happened. There was a vast conspiracy, one man in a pub in Ostwick claimed. No, countered another, the Knight Commander went mad. She triggered everything. Fights broke out over accusations. Men and women fled cities, desperate to find answers, to find safety. The Tevinter Imperium experienced a surge of refugees, and even the qunari, far to the north, found many willing converts.

The word from the other capitals of Thedas was even worse. Mages were rising up against the templars, obliterating Chantries left and right, destroying towers, and killing templars. Meanwhile the templars were executing mages, annulling whole Circles as precautionary measures, and even going so far as to storm isolated caravans and Dalish camps, hunting for any who could be conveniently called apostates.

The Chantry struggled to contain the chaos. The Divine declared a state of emergency, tried to order the Knight Commanders to restrain themselves, to contain their anger over the slaughter in Kirkwall. She told them to stop annulling Circles, to stop harassing mages, to do their duties, and only their duties. The Divine had spoken, she assured her followers, and the Maker would see them all through these tragic days.

Her words did not help. In Val Royeaux, the evening before the celebration commemorating Andraste's Exalted March, a young templar broke into the children's rooms in the city's Circle of Magi. By the time he was found and stopped, seven mage children, the sons and daughters of prominent Orlesian nobility, were dead, murdered in their beds. For the first time in memory, the Chant of Light was silent in Val Royeaux. The Divine wept openly, and threatened to banish the templars from the city.

Conditions only grew worse after the events in Val Royeaux. People tried to push templars out of villages, but their efforts almost always ended in slaughter. Templars attacked villages; mages retaliated. In a last ditch effort to protect Denerim the Queen of Ferelden went so far as to declare the few mages at her court under her protection. Anyone who attacked them would be seen as attacking the Queen and the city.

The Denerim Chantry was locked, chains strung across the doors. Two templars attempted to storm the royal palace in retaliation. Palace guards, loyal to Queen Anora, and determined to see her safe, captured the would-be assassins. They were burned in the market square.

Queen Anora called for advice. She summoned anyone she could, and, when desperation seized her, she summoned the Warden Commander of Ferelden to her court. Anora dismissed everyone, paced before her throne, and pleaded with the Warden, in privacy, to aid her.

"What can I do?" she asked. "What must I do to prevent this war from touching my country?"

Thérèse Amell shook her head. "I'm sorry, Your Highness," she said, "but Grey Wardens do not involve themselves in political matters."

Anora stared at her. "Please. You must do something."

"What would you have me do?" the Commander inquired. "Darkspawn still roam the Deep Roads, and they occasionally breach the surface. This is my focus."

"You are a mage!" Anora cried. "These are your people suffering and dying. They are your fellow citizens. They are my subjects. I cannot stand by and watch while this—"

"I am sorry," the Warden Commander said again, "but this is not our fight."

"Cailan believed in you!" Anora shouted. "My husband believed you were great warriors, noble soldiers. He believed you would lead him to victory all those years ago. Would you abandon _me_ when I need you most, as it was believed you abandoned him?"

Thérèse Amell gave Anora a sympathetic look. "We both lost good men to darkspawn, Anora," she said softly. "The difference between us is that I watched while he died, and I never thought myself a better person for his loss."

Anora choked, too horrified to speak.

The Commander thought for a moment. "Speak to the Orlesians if you want to have a hope of survival."

"The Orlesians? Do you have any idea what my father would—"

"Yes," Thérèse interrupted. "Your father was a good man, but pride blinded him. It's blinding you, too. If you want to fight, discard your pride." She smiled faintly. "Maker knows, Anora, that I cast my own pride aside years ago. I am the Commander of the Grey. My concerns are not those of the world."

"This war will destroy Ferelden," Anora whispered. "Everything my father and Cailan died for, it will crumble. Sweet Maker, but I'll lose everything again." She sank onto her throne, her hands gripping the armrests. "What would you have me do?" she asked, her voice weary.

"Stand your ground," Thérèse told her. "Be your father's daughter. If you want this war to end, you'll do what I once did: you'll build an army, and you'll march against your enemy."

"But that's just it," Anora said miserably. "Between mages, templars, Chantry priests, and assassins, I don't know who my enemies are anymore!"

"Welcome to my world," said the Commander of the Grey, and departed.


	22. Epilogue 2

In her Denerim home, on a morning in late spring, some three months after Queen Anora's conference with the Warden Commander, Aveline Vallen watched the last templars leaving the city. The war had finally touched Denerim.

The Bannorn had agreed upon Anora's decree, and the banns were in favor of the ruling that the templars were no longer welcome in Denerim. The Circle was allowed to remain, using the old Chantry building. First Enchanter Irving returned, with a dozen mages loyal to him. They were a solitary group, but well liked by the remaining people in Denerim. The mages were gentle, focused, and Irving proved popular amongst the young children.

Aveline bowed her head. She and Donnic had stayed in Denerim, though he wanted them to leave as soon as possible. He'd heard that Amaranthine held better promise, and that the Wardens, despite their insistence on being apolitical, had managed to keep the conflict to a minimum. Having a mage as the Warden Commander had some perks, Aveline supposed.

She heard a knock on the door. Picking up a sword from a nearby workbench, she peered through the small window in the door, before opening it. A haggard looking messenger stood there. "Guard Captain Aveline Vallen?"

She nodded.

"Message for you, Captain." He handed her a sealed, tightly rolled scroll.

"Who is it from?" she asked, hesitantly taking it.

"Couldn't say, Guard Captain," he said. "Was left at a depot north of Denerim some time ago. I've been dashing back and forth, and I nearly forgot about it."

"When was this left?" Aveline asked, suddenly curious.

"There's a port, just north of the city," the messenger said. "I take messages where I can. This one was left about, ah, probably two weeks back now."

"Two weeks?" Aveline looked at the seal carefully. There was a stylized symbol on it, a series of interwoven knots, creating the sigil of a dragon. She looked at the messenger, and handed him two gold pieces. He looked stunned, then thanked her profusely and hurried away.

Aveline closed the door, and held the scroll in her hands.

She slowly wandered around the common room of the house, not wanting to open it for fear of what it contained. Donnic walked out of their bedroom. "Everything all right?" he asked. He saw the scroll. "Who's it from?"

"I think it might be news," she said. She gently cracked the seal, and unrolled the parchment.

The handwriting was blocky, scrawled in poor man's ink, but the message read:

_Hello from the land of the living. You look beautiful. Your man's not in bad shape either. Kiss her for me, guardsman._

_- MH_

There was no signature.

Aveline looked at Donnic. "Hawke's alive," she said softly.

* * *

In the middle of the ocean, a two-mast ship glided through the waters, red sigiled sails catching the air. At the bough, a woman wearing a long black shirt secured with white cords, knee-length trousers, and tall, buckled boots stood, watching the horizon coming at her. She closed her eyes against the salty wind in her face, relished the taste of freedom, the feeling of life. She leaned her elbows on the railings, the sky reaching out, offering the rest of the world for her to see.

She glanced over her shoulder, and saw a man standing on the nets, gripping tightly with one hand, his other reaching out over the waves. He wore black trousers and boots, and a white shirt with the sleeves bunched up; his hands and wrists were covered in soft black leather wraps. His black hair was tied back in a long tail, his skin burned darker by the sun, his pale gray eyes clear and bright, watching the world. He caught her watching him, and gave her a wide grin.

She returned it and waved. He waved back with his free hand, moved it back over the water, and twisted his fingers. Sea water plumed into the air, spinning and splashing, dancing just for her, before spinning toward her, freezing and shattering into delicate ice crystals, raining down around her. She laughed, lifting up her hands to touch the suspended droplets before they vanished.

The crew gathered on the deck cheered.

"Now that," shouted the man on the nets, "is how one impresses a pirate, gentlemen!"

Captain Isabela would be the first to admit she was impressed. The wind whipped through her hair. She watched Marekh Hawke, climbing nets, giving orders, the ship an extension of his own body, knowing it as well as Isabela did. He'd taken to the sea as naturally as she'd always suspected he would.

When he appeared beside her, sliding down a long rope, he wrapped an arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek. "Where to now?" he wanted to know.

"There," she said, pointing to a spot in the distance.

"You sure? What about over there?"

"Qunari that way."

"Hm, well, I'm sure there are dragons the other direction."

"I could use a pet dragon," she said.

"You've already got me," he said.

"I do, and you are splendid with fire." She shifted her hand. "No, I changed my mind. We're going that way."

"What's that way?"

"Antiva."

"I've never been. What's in Antiva?"

"Pirates, gangs, intrigue, adventure, assassins, all those things we love."

"I do love pirates," he agreed.

"To Antiva then," she said, and kissed him. "Let's go have an adventure."

_The End_

* * *

_Author's Note: To those of you who rode out this little journey with me, I say thank you. I hope you enjoy what you've read. There might be further adventures for our Hawke and Isabela, but for now, I'm letting them sail off into the sunset. Let's be honest, these kids deserve a holiday._

_Again, thanks to those who've stuck with me. Thank you, thank you, and a third time, thank you._


End file.
